“For someone who isn’t sure if I should meet this guy you are pushing quite hard,” I giggle.
“Hey, I’m just glad you’re getting yourself out there for once. Maybe when the pleasure man turns out to be a weirdo you’ll run into your prince charming who’ll rescue you.”
“Are we still getting rescued in this day and age?” I retort, ripping off the sticky strip I had just placed on my breast because it was too high. “Fuck!” I swear loudly. This was almost more painful than when I once ripped my eyebrow off with a peel off mask… by mistake.
“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help.” Samira’s voice comes from further away.
It's fiddlier than I thought, but eventually I get the double-sided tape in place and the other side of my top is also secured to my breast. When I open the cubicle door, Samira inspects me from head to toe.
"You look amazing," she grins.
"Let's not exaggerate. I look okay, I guess," I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The top is more form fitting than what I normally wear. A belt is cinching it in the waist, giving me kind of an hourglass figure. A big hourglass, that is.
"No, you look beautiful. And don't forget, he’s seen what you look like. He’s the one that is hiding half his face. I mean, he might have a monobrow." She crunches up her nose.
I laugh, " You know what, I'm not sure I’d care. He’s nice."
"He could have a Satan tattoo on his forehead," she muses. "Or be bald."
"No, you can see some of his hair in the picture," I giggle.
"Just promise me you’ll be careful and you’ll keep texting me so I know he hasn't dragged you off to his dungeon," she says with genuine concern in her voice. I grab my toiletry bag from her hands and take out a brush.
"Sure," I promise as I bend over and awkwardly try to blow dry my fringe with the hand dryer. I have a natural wave to my hair and after a day in the office my fringe sticks in all directions.
I pull out some of the makeup I bought on my lunch break and start painting it on. I don't usually wear makeup, just some mascara, but the last thing a pleasure dom will be interested in is a plain Jane.
"Wow, you look like... I don't know—" Samira is staring at me in the mirror. I can see her biting her lips. Yes, I look ridiculous. I don't look like me.
"I look like a drag queen," I sigh.
"Maybe a tiny bit," Samira giggles.
"Oh fuck it," I grab a face wipe and take all the makeup off again before putting some mascara on. There, that's me. Take it or leave it Ben.
It's ten to five. That's not too early. That's not too eager, right? I walk into the restaurant which is still fairly quiet this early in the evening. My eyes scan the room, although I'm not sure why. I don't know what he looks like. "I'll find you," he said. Oh, he is so going to ghost me.
My eyes move from table to table. Then I freeze. Fuck. What is he doing here? A hot flash shoots through me. I'm not sure if it is residual anger or sheer panic. I ought to avert my gaze, but he's caught my eye, and I just can't tear myself away. Panic wells up in me. There, at the far end of the restaurant, sits the man who broke my heart so thoroughly that it messed me up for years. Benjamin Whitmore. I haven't seen him since that fateful day almost twenty years ago and I had hoped to never see him again in my life. I was good at avoiding him even when we lived in the same village.
I know his sister still lives in Little Hadlow but I haven't spoken to her in years. It’s a small village but it’s big enough to avoid people you don’t want to meet. I occasionally spot her from the distance, but I have a spidey sense for the Whitmores and I hotfoot it in the other direction when I see any of them. I can’t possibly face her, or Ben, after everything that happened. Who needs that awkwardness?
Luckily, Ben moved to the US a year after we broke up and he’s barely been home since. And I haven't thought about him in the last few years. Not often, at least.
I should turn around and walk away but what would Ben think if I stood him up? If he turns up, that is.
Ben! Suddenly something clicks in my brain. No, no, no. Heat creeps into my cheeks and a sense of doom settles in my guts.
That bastard! Ben Whitmore is my Ben. Pleasure Dom Ben is the person who ripped my heart out and stamped on it. Looks like my spidey sense doesn’t work online.
Before I can leave, he gets out of the little booth and walks up to me.
"Hi, Amelia."
"You… You—" Bastard. Rat. Arsehole. Smoking hot heart-breaker. No, forget smoking hot.
"Please, Amelia! Don’t run. Give me a chance to explain... Just one dinner. Please," he begs. There are laughter lines on his face and some grey in his hair and his stubble. It makes him look more manly, distinguished, and hot. No, not hot, I said! Don't even go there!
But his eyes themselves haven't changed. They are a cool shade of blue, like a sapphire. Long, dark lashes frame them. I always loved his eyes and I’m still convinced it was his eyes that bewitched me, all these years back.
I look around the quiet restaurant, unsure of what to do. My gut feeling tells me I should run, I should get away from him. He broke me once and judging by the messages we’ve exchanged so far, he could break me again. But something is stopping me. It has been a long time and we have never spoken about what happened, simply because I didn't give him a chance.
What is there to explain if someone―no, not someone: your boyfriend―laughs about you behind your back and calls you ugly?
I wait for the angry fire to start in my chest. The one that I felt alongside the sadness of losing him. But nothing.
I always wondered why he did it. Why did he go out with me if that was his opinion of me? Maybe it's time to face my fear and hear him out?
"Please," he whispers and he looks nervous. "I know I should have told you that it’s me you’ve been chatting with but I was scared you’d block me and I want nothing more than to finally explain what happened." He’s showing vulnerability I’ve never seen in him.
His eyes bore into me and butterflies, knots… something is forming in my stomach. The door behind me opens and I realise we’re blocking the entrance. My eyes fall shut as I take a deep breath. Maybe when I open them, this will all have been a bad dream. Ben’s hand on my arm, gently pulling me to the side so the people stepping into the restaurant behind me can pass, brings me back.
It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. Ben Whitmore is still looking at me with pleading puppy eyes.
"Okay, fine,” I finally exhale, “But only because I'm hungry." I lift my chin in defiance, pretending his presence hasn't set off a firework of emotions in me.
"Thank you." His deep and silky voice sends a shiver through me, but I try desperately not to show it.
“Just promise me you’ll give it to me straight. Don’t lie to me,” I mumble.
