The story of a Saturday yet to be ...
Nervously he sits in the car looking out at the bright and crisp winter's morning. All around the city is only just beginning to stir. His eyes flick to clock on the dashboard, watching the second hand trace its inexorable circular sweep. He's here now, a few hours and a mile away from meeting .... eventually a door opens, cold air bites and he steps out into the world.
The city's pulse is quickening, the pavements begin to fill with people scurrying about, living their Saturday lives. He is one among thousands, a face in the crowd but he feels different. As he walks his eyes dart about wondering, can they tell that he's on his way to a moment of submission and happiness or freedom and disappointment. His eyes flick to his watch, an hour away and a few hundred paces from meeting.
He walks through the docks, past the moored narrowboats and pleasure cruisers, genteel and well-manner in their old age. He listens for echoes of long ago, the voices of navvies the cries of bargemen, but the cold wind took them long ago. He looks at the tall warehouses, now shops, offices and homes ... he distracts himself from the meeting to come. His eyes pick a low cube among the high victorian edifices, rust red, iron hard ... an eating place, the meeting place. His eyes flick to the clock tower, a few minutes and within sight now.
He sits nervously at the table, looking at the other dinners, wondering if they can tell. His eyes flick to his wrist watch, it's here and now. He gazes across the tables, filled with the lunchtime crowd, to the door. It opens ....
She walks in ... he's sure it is her ... the photographs didn't show everything but there's something about the way she walks and the way she picks him out from the sea of dinners. He feels a lump in his throat as she walks across the restaurant towards him but stands and pulls out her chair so she can sit before he does.
He looks across at her wondering what happens next, aware of his heart beating out a savage primal beat. A moment's silence, should he speak first?
"I'm glad to meet you Miss. I hope you've had a good journey?"
It seems strange passing such banalities but this is a meeting for each of them to discover more about the face behind the monitor screen and the person behind the face, the everyday as well as the Everyday.
They talk, haltingly at first but then in a richer more consistent flow of words, exploring who they are and what they want. They don't explore the proposed relationship in detail but he begins to detect steel in her voice, a way of framing the conversations so L is generally in charge. The meal is pleasant, but he hardly notices, wrapped up in the moment.
Finally this first meeting has to end - he searches her face for signs of approval, of a willingness to take things further? He knows he is often too needy, to eager to move forward, has he put her off. She pushes something towards him - a test?
He looks inside ... and sees something that he recognises .... a strange looking piece of clear plastic with something that looks like a thin plastic lock. He looks up at Miss and back into the bag. A chastity device. He looks up again and she just smile ... he remembers a conversation about controlling his pleasure ...
His eyes click to the clock on the wall, watching the second hand sweep travelling it's perpetual circular route ...
"I've got to go the the toilet ...."
The words have a frightening component that they've never had before.