"I didn't ask for help. And why is it so important to you that I'm in a relationship?"

"It's not normal to be single at our age," Bea scoffs. "And the pool is getting smaller and smaller." I don't need to ask what she means by that.

"Says who?" I ask defiantly, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"I mean, you probably don't want children this old," Miranda suggests, trying to argue my side even if her comment feels like another dig. I'm forty-one. Fair enough, it would be harder now but it wouldn’t require a medical miracle.

"But you don't want to die alone either," Bea adds. And here we are with death again. I'm forty-freak'n-one. I could live another forty years. Again that would not constitute a medical miracle.

"I have plenty of time to find someone. But you know what, even if I don’t, I won't die alone. I'll have Smutty. Although he may chew up my face if nobody finds me early enough," I give them a smirk and take a big spoonful of pasta.

Bea’s eyes fall on my food and she is about to give me a snide comment about it, I’m sure, but I cut her off.

"So, what are you going to do about the flowers?" I divert the attention from me to Miranda. Just like every other time, this works like a treat. Both like nothing better than to talk about weddings. Shoes, flowers, music, who will bitch about the food, who can't sit next to whom because they hate each other. I don't get it. I'm a bit of a wedding-phobe. I like the idea of being married, of promising one special person that you'll be there for them for the rest of your life. But the idea of a wedding with uncomfortable clothes, overpriced meals and forced dancing makes me shudder. Lucky for me, Miranda’s soon-to-be husband only has one groomsman so she can only have one bridesmaid. I have never volunteered quicker for anything than sitting out bridesmaid duties.

It's after ten by the time I get back to my small cottage on the outskirts of Little Hadlow. I’ve lived in this village all my life. The house I grew up in is only two streets over from my cottage. Little Hadlow is a stone's throw from Sevenoaks and close enough to London for a daily commute to work. So, if I ever fancy a bit of city life, it's there for the taking. Yet, despite its proximity to the capital, Little Hadlow still feels like a whole different world. Rural, quiet, less pretentious and more … homely. Even after my parents moved, I never really wanted to live anywhere else .

As I approach the front door all seems quiet but I'm sure I'm being watched. I can almost feel his eyes bore into me from the darkness behind the ground floor window. Smutty won't let me hear the end of returning home so late and making him wait for his dinner. He’s a little drama queen… drama king, just a bit of a pain in the arse to be honest. I found him when he was tiny, drenched from the rain and shaking from the cold. I searched for his mum and owner but couldn't find anyone and so I took him home, pepped him up and ever since my house has been his kingdom. What he wants, he gets.

I push the door open carefully and I'm immediately greeted by a pitiful cry. He can't be that hungry as I always leave him enough food, but he won't stop this caterwauling until he can be sure I have learned my lesson.

Huh, maybe I am a submissive?I'm a submissive to my cat. The thought causes me to chuckle, much to Smutty's displeasure. He ups his wailing a nudge and rubs against my legs. I almost stumble over him in the dark.

"Smutty, cut it out!" I feel my way along the wall until my fingers find the light switch. In the dim shine of the single lamp swinging from the ceiling I can see that Smutty has rummaged through my laundry again. Two pairs of knickers are strewn around the living room floor.

"Oh, come on, did you need to do this?" I point at my underwear. He just bumps his head into my leg. All he’s interested in is being fed. When I have to travel to work I leave him dry food but what he really wants is some stinking wet cat food. I hate the smell but, well, he’s the boss.

Smutty is at the limit of his patience whilst I hang up my coat and fiddle for my phone in my coat pocket. He starts to nibble on my Achilles tendon. With my shoes off he has full access and he doesn't hesitate.

"Stop it," I laugh and jump out of the way. "Fine, come on then." I walk towards the kitchen and Smutty overtakes me, making little chirping noises. That's my happy boy. I drop my phone on the tiny kitchen table and grab a tin of food. The race is on: if I'm not quick, he’ll sink his teeth into the back of my foot again.

The plate with his food hasn't even touched the floor when Smutty wolfs down the first bite. You’d think he hadn't eaten in days. I pick up my phone and leave him to it. I head to my bedroom, switching off all lights on the way there.

I love my cottage. It’s quaint, it’s cosy, and I feel at home here. Aside from the living room and kitchen on the ground floor, there’s a small downstairs bathroom in a nook under the stairs. On the first floor I have my bedroom, a small office which doubles as a guest bedroom, and a bathroom with a giant bath. The tub is my pride and joy. It’s not only large, but also extra deep with part of it lowered into the floor. This means that when I'm having a bath I am actually fully submerged. not like in normal sized bathtubs where you have to decide between sticking your legs out so your boobs are covered or freezing your nipples off so that your legs are covered.

Speaking about a bath. Right now that sounds like a great idea; I could do with some relaxing. My mind is still reeling from the fact that Bea has signed me up for a dating app. A BDSM dating app. I eye my phone on my bed as I take off my cardigan. I'm angry, yes, but I'm also curious. I mean, it’s not that I haven’t fantasised about being pushed up against a wall whilst getting pounded hard by a broody Alpha. Not sure that qualifies as BDSM though. It does in my world of vanilla sex.

Eventually curiosity wins and I jump onto my bed. I should finish changing but instead I sit there in just my bra and trousers as my finger slides over the glass to unlock it. When the home screen flashes up I download the app. As soon as I’m logged in I see a tiny number three next to the message icon. I hesitate for a moment before I tap on it.

Christopher

Hello, Amelia. Are you going to be a good girl for me?

Yup, no. No, no. I click delete and the next message pops up.

Thomas

I’d like to see your pussy.

Sure, let me take a quick picture. I shake my head. People! I should really check what details Bea has put up on my profile.

Ben

Hi Amelia!

That's it? I wait a little longer, but he doesn't send anything else. I click on his profile. It's another guy in a shirt with rolled up sleeves. Only the bottom half of his face is visible. Pleasure dom. That's the category he’s chosen for himself. I'm not sure what that means.

I open the search engine on my phone, choose anonymous browsing and type in the words pleasure dom.

There is a nervous twitch in my tummy and a tingling between my legs. That actually doesn't sound scary. That sounds… exciting. I tap the message and reply:

Me

Hi Ben!

Shit! I turn the screen off and throw my phone on my bed. I can't believe I did that. I just got in touch with a pleasure dom!

3

If I Could Turn Back Time

Ben

I can feel a hammering behind my eyes. The only light in the room is the glimmer coming from my laptop and the small desk lamp. I should've switched on the main light before this video conference started. Two hours in, I regret my laziness. Just as much as I regret attending this thing in the first place. There isn't much in it for our company joining this conference for young entrepreneurs, but Nebula Tech Ventures is a top tech firm in Silicon Valley, and we’re trying to agree a partnership with them. So, when they invited us to their event it was difficult to say no.

Aside from the voice of the presenter coming from my laptop the office is eerily quiet. Even the cleaner has called it a day. I hit the button on my mobile and see that it's past ten. When Coop and I kicked off our company over a decade ago, we pulled insane hours. There were times when we'd sleep at the office because going home seemed pointless. Now, our main company oversees six others, and we've scaled our hours back a bit. Still, I often find myself working until late at night. Coop is finally in the relationship he had been dreaming of for so long and rarely stays beyond six these days. Honestly, I could probably leave sooner if I wanted, but I've got nothing and nobody waiting for me. An empty house, an empty office―what's the difference?

I love my work and I’m not a monk. I have the occasional date and there is Gina, my… acquaintance with benefits for a lack of a better word. But I’m forty-two and I’m starting to wonder if I’m not wasting my years with just work and casual dating. If there isn’t more to life.

Gina and I actually tried to date properly when we both lived in New York. She runs her own skin care company and spends half her time in the US and half her time back here. We bonded over our love for England and our sexual preferences, but quickly realised that we just don’t have the right feelings for each other. She’s beautiful and fun and a good submissive, but she doesn’t make my heart race and she doesn’t make me think of a future together. Not that this would even be an option at the moment. I haven’t seen her in a while because she has been dating a new dom and it seemed serious between them, and I respect that. Neither of us believes in cheating.

My eyes slide back to the clock. Fifteen more minutes and then this part of the workshop will be over and I can sign off. My stomach protests loudly because the last thing I had to eat was the sandwich Gladys brought me at noon. Gladys is our office angel and has been with Coop and me since we started the company. Last week was her sixtieth birthday and that made me realise that she’s not far from retiring. She deserves nothing more than to put her feet up, but the thought of running the company without her there does not fill me with joy.

My fingers fiddle with the phone again and, on autopilot, I open up my favourite dating app. I’ve dabbled in the BDSM scene since my late twenties, but in the last five years I found what really works for me. I don’t get my kink from pain or bondage; I get it from providing endless pleasure to my submissives. And the easiest way to meet like-minded people is this specialist app.

I have a few messages waiting for me but I disregard them. Some people don’t bother to read the person’s profile and that’s how I end up with messages from women looking for daddy doms, which I don't do, and dominatrixes who want to peg me, which I’m definitely not into.

As there are no interesting prospects in my inbox I start swiping. Left, left, right, left. I don’t worry too much about the photos. After all, I’m only showing the bottom half of my face myself, so who am I to judge?

Left, right, right… the next photo makes me pause. It's of a blonde woman lying on a bed. She’s in the background with a black cat dominating the front of the picture. With her fair locks and white nighty, she looks as innocent as they come even if her age reads forty-one.

Something looks familiar. Very familiar. I cast my eye over the details on her profile. Amelia. I sit up straight. Fucking hell. I zoom into the picture. And there they are. The blue-grey eyes I haven’t seen in twenty years even if I thought about them often. Amelia. My Amelia. My heart starts racing as memories flood my brain. Some amazing ones, some incredible sexy ones, and some heart-wrenching painful ones. And it’s those painful thoughts that should stop me from reaching out to her.

Huh, who am I kidding?No way can I miss this opportunity. There is a reason why I settled back into the village we grew up in after moving back from the States. Be it when heading to the shops or on my Sunday morning run, the hope of bumping into her is always there. I know she still lives in Little Hadlow but I haven’t dared to ask our mutual friends where her place is exactly. It’s not that I hope to win her back. I think the chances of that are nil. All I want is an opportunity to say sorry and explain myself. That’s it.

“Ben, are there any closing words you have for our young hopefuls?” I had completely forgotten that I’m on a video call.