Sarah K. - The Secret Life of a Submissive

To P I have never felt so loved.

I know nothing about sex because I was always married.

Zsa Zsa Gabor

So if you could do anything, anything at all, what would you do? I asked, handing round the after-dinner mints.

Across the table, Gabbie, who is one of my oldest and best friends, and who was busy helping herself to the last slice of cheesecake, said, Im assuming were not talking about hang-gliding here, are we?

No. In bed.

In bed? said Helen. That restricts it a bit. How about out of bed?

You know what I mean: if you could do anything sexually.

Oh, youre way too coy to be a pornographer, snorted Gabbie.

Do the things weve already done count? asked Joan.

We all turned to look at her. Joan is small, lovely, and looks like butter wouldnt melt. Back in the mists of time shed been a tour rep for Thomsons and up until now what had happened on tour had most definitely stayed on tour.

Anything, I repeated. Any time, any place, anywhere.

And then youre going to write about it? said Helen, topping up her wine glass.

Well, yes, if its any good I will. I wont use any of your names, obviously, and Ill change it enough so that no one knows it was you.

Thats a shame, said Joan, taking another mint from the box. Im sure Miguel and Antonio would be chuffed to bits to see their names up in lights.

Everyone laughed. Youre winding us up, said Gabbie.

Joan pulled a face and then laughed. Oh, come on, she said. We all did crazy things when we were younger.

I didnt, I said, and this time it was me they all looked at. Well, its true. I didnt. I was married by the time I was twenty.

Before then, said Gabbie, you must have played around a bit.

I had a couple of boyfriends, but not that many. And Ray and I met when Id just finished sixth form I began. You know that.

Although I didnt say anything, in all the years wed been together Ray had always preferred his sex the same way he enjoyed his food: plain, nothing fancy and without any peculiar ingredients. For him the very thought of anything that didnt involve fumbling around under the duvet with the lights off was a sign of moral turpitude, and if he had ever enjoyed it before, it wasnt the kind of thing you inflicted on your wife.

Oh, that is classic, snorted Helen. Youre the one who is supposed to be writing a dirty book and youre the only one whos stuck to the straight and narrow. Fabulous.

Its not dirty, its erotica, and this is exactly why Ive got you lot over. So what would you do?

We were having a fajita evening in the kitchen at Gabbies cottage near Somerleyton.

Weve been doing it for years. We used to meet up once a month when the children were smaller, but these days we get together when we can fit it into our increasingly busy lives. Every time we do it I wish we did it more.

We met at pre-natal classes in a scout hut in a little village just outside Cambridge. Weve supported each other through backache, heartburn, teething, sleepless nights, terrible twos, troublesome teenagers, empty nests, dodgy marriages, cheating husbands and messy divorces. Weve wept with each other, laughed with each other, got drunk with each other, and helped each other move house and move on. Remarkably were all still friends.

Spread out over Gabbies huge farmhouse kitchen was the debris of wrap-them-up-yourself chicken fajitas, tortilla chips, sour cream, salsa, potato wedges, white wine, Spanish beer and a big jug of margarita mix. Wed eaten our way through assorted tubs of Ben & Jerrys and a twice-baked New York cheesecake made by Joan who, after years of abstinence on the kitchen front, had started working in a cookshop, taken up the apron and turned out to be the most amazing cook.

Gabbie is a solicitor, well spoken, tall and skinny, with the most fabulous long, straight, brown hair. Whatever shes doing, she always looks as if she has just been ironed. Helen is a gardener: strawberry blonde, ruddy complexion, capable, funny, always wears trousers or shorts and smiles a lot. Theres Joan, tiny, pretty, dark-haired Joan, who manages a shop and is a deacon at her local church. And then theres me, Sarah, and Im a writer.

Id been writing romantic fiction for the best part of twenty years, creating modern fairy tales about handsome, flawed, lovable heroes and complex women with complicated lives, finding their way to their very own happy ever after. For the last couple of years Id been the main breadwinner, paying the bills while my husband, Ray, went back to college full time. To make ends meet, alongside writing novels, Id also written for magazines and newspapers, for radio, short stories, travel guides, country house handbooks in fact anything to make a living. Which was what led a friend, another writer, to send me a newspaper clipping about a publisher that was bringing out erotic fiction specifically written for women by women. My friend suggested that we both have a go at writing something. All they wanted was three chapters and a synopsis. What had we got to lose? After all, she reasoned, the sage advice given to all writers is to write about what you know. We were both married and we knew about sex. More than that, we knew about the sex we would enjoy given half a chance, which wasnt necessarily the same as the sex we were getting.

To be frank, writing erotica had never been up there on my Ten things to do before I die list, but it was a new market, I needed to earn a living and I decided it was worth a shot after all, what was the worst that could happen? They would reject my idea. What I hadnt bargained for was that it would help change my life for ever.

Youd think writing about sex would be easy, but when, after submitting my sample chapters, I was given a commission to write my first erotic novel and started work, I discovered it isnt.

You need to find ways to describe all the bits and pieces and goings on so that it doesnt sound like a public information film; and once you get past the labelling of parts you need to make it all sound sensual and romantic, and take your reader on a slow enjoyable journey towards a rip-snorting climax.

So no pressure then.

I kept a notebook alongside my keyboard with a whole collection of stick drawings in it, a visual aid to help me to work out what you could do given time, patience and no worries about a dodgy back man woman, woman woman, man man, twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, orgy as well as where all the bits go. While you can more or less guess what the business end is up to, where people put their arms, knees or elbows isnt always as clear, so you need to work it out, so that the mechanics are sorted and therefore more or less invisible, and your hero wont fall over while mid-fuck.

No one in erotica ever falls over unless theyre being swept off their feet and ravaged. They dont get cramp, or the giggles, or trip over their pants while theyre trying to take them off. No one passes wind and flaps the covers, laughing furiously. Zips never get stuck, everyone always comes, and no one ever has a spotty bum. Humour and sex dont mix in erotic fiction, or so my new editor reliably informed me.

Good erotic fiction should be like the best sex, she said during one of our telephone conversations. A long, slow, satisfying build-up, hitting all the sweet spots, filling you with expectation, getting you more and more aroused, slowly bringing you closer and closer to the edge, making you gasp with pleasure, before finally taking you breathlessly to the grand finale. Erotic fiction should never let you down. Nobody in an erotic novel ever thought: lets get this over and done with,