Primi Piatti, The Zone, Rosebank

Friday, July 30, 2004

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Phone: +27 11 447 0300

Friday night, and all the models and glamour babes are out in force. They're sitting lithely at the be-seen tables here at Primi. And N. and I have miraculously found a table out on the balcony. Ringside seats.

But she and I aren't model-watching. We're fully absorbed in each other.

I can't tell you who she is, cos she has a boyfriend. And what we're talking about is stuff that might just freak him out and mess up her relationship. So she'll remain N. She's a girl I'd like to get to know a LOT better. Let's leave it at that. And lemme just say that I've wanted her from the very first time I saw her. And that she smsed me earlier to say, "Hey Roy, long time no see! How about coffee??"

I knew from the presence of two question marks that she's keen on me. Okay. I'll admit it... I didn't exactly KNOW. It was more like I WISHED that she was keen on me.

"But Roy!!!" you may be shrieking, "what about Karen!!!"

Well, two things. Firstly, I'm SEEING her, and learning about her, and finding out if we like each other enough to commit to a relationship. Secondly, I've made it clear to her that I'm currently monogamous with her, even though I'm uncomfortable with this. And I don't break my word. So I'm fine being here with N. And I'm fine about wanting to fuck her. Cos I know I'm not going to. Simple as that. But I WANT to. Okay? Got this outta the way? Good. Let's move on.

We started out our coffee meeting earlier at Seattle Coffee Company.

"Tell me everything about this new girl in your life," she said. She follows this site, so she's seen the stuff about D/s. "I want DETAILS!" she says.

So I tell her about making love the D/s way. I tell her about tying Karen up. And various other things. And with every detail, she's kinda gasping.

"Wow!" she says. "Sounds liberating."

"Now you're in a new relationship?" I say. She's alluded to the presence of a dude on the scene.

"Well, it's only been a few weeks," she says. "And he's a really nice guy. Really very nice. Treats me very well. A gentleman. Very... uh... kind and considerate. Gentle." She's looking at me very oddly. Her head is cocked to one side, and there's a kind of pain in her eyes. Her black hair frames her cheeks, and sitting here in the leather armchair in Seattle Coffee Co, I want to comfort her for making the wrong choice.

"Is he giving you what you want?" I ask.

She pauses, her head still cocked. She says, "No, he's not."

"What do you want?" I ask.

She leans forward, and the pain leaves her face. She whispers, "D/s."

I don't hear her properly. "Did you say, 'D/s'?" I ask.

"Yes."

She's looking at me hard, leaning forward. She's reaching for me. I feel her soul stretching for mine. I take my sarong in my hands. I use it as a scarf usually. But I've employed it effectively in restraining Karen before.

"N.," I say, looking hard into her eyes, "put your hands together in front of you."

She does.

I put my sarong around her wrists, do a complicated little jig, and she's tied up. I grasp the knot, and tug gently. "Is this what you want?"

She's been gasping as I've been tying, and now, in the coffee shop, she tilts her head back, her chin angled, her eyes fixed to mine. "Yes!" she breathes. And I can see from the way her body's poised and from the look on her face that she's hit subspace. It's uncanny. This is exactly the space that Karen lives for. It's the space that submissives around the world crave. And now, the first time it's ever been done to her, N. experiences the zone.

"Let's go and eat," I say. And I undo the knot.

"Oh!" she gasps as I release her.

Jesus. I want to fuck her right now. Right this second. I want to consume this woman. Damn this monogamy stuff!!!!!! Ugh! Why the hell do I have such a strict moral code? What's WRONG with me??? Sigh.

We go to Primi Piatti.

En route, we stop off at Stone Cherry, the designer boutique. There's an outfit on display that I feel compelled to praise the shop assistant for. I tell her, "Sissie, I just want to say that any woman wearing that outfit can have me anytime she wants!"

The shop woman says, "Oh! If only I had your number! There could have been many women who would have had you!"

N. is wandering around touching fabrics. "Wow!" she says. "This is a skirt!" It's a mock suede, and it's just divine. Ayee. I want to wear this skirt! I put my sarong around N.'s neck. I use it to choke her, very gently, increasing the pressure. She tilts her head back, and goes into subspace again. It's uncanny. The lust in her eyes is just unbelievable. I can't believe this.

I let her go.

"Sissie," I say to the shop assistant. "I'm a man who likes to wear skirts. But I need pockets. Is there anything you guys make that I can wear on top of a skirt to give it pockets?"

She pulls out something. "This is a sample, and they're not making anymore of them, and it's only got one pocket. Try it."

So I put it on over my cargo pants. It's like a skirt, but has a long thin section that hangs down the front, mirrored at the back. The front bit has a pocket on it. "Ooooooooooo!" I say. "This would be perfect if it had more pockets. Please can't you speak to the designer and tell her that I'd like to have this with more pockets?"

"I'll speak to her," she says.

I hand her my Coffee-Shop Schmuck business card, and she writes on it, 'Apron. Six pockets.'

N. and I finally get to Primi. The manager recognises me somehow. "Roy!" he says. "Where you wanna sit?"

"Ah!" I say. "I recognise you! You and I had a tussle about my beret, didn't we?"

"Yeah," he says, showing us to a prime table. He and I had a fight when I was sitting in the Primi Piatti lounge some weeks ago. They have a 'no-head-gear-for-men' policy, which I think is crazy and dumb. So I refused to take my hat off when three waiters made the request. Finally, the manager arrived, and explained that it was national policy for Primi. And I said, "If Michael Jackson came here to fuck little boys, would you make HIM take off his hat?"

"Michael Jackson?" he said. "Of course! We've had Hollywood film stars here and we've asked THEM to take off their hats!"

So now he recognises me, and I'm getting some kind of VIP treatment for some strange reason. Could be cos I'm with the beautiful N. People take beauty very seriously indeed.

We order a California pizza and a grilled vegetable salad to share. The pizza is delicious. I'm less enamoured with the salad, but N. digs it.

"You've gone into subspace twice now," I say to her. "Looks like you kinda like this?"

"I do."

"You're a natural. Are you going to ditch this boyfriend of yours? Or are you going to see if he can get into this?"

"Maybe he'll be able to get into it," she says.

"Well," I say, "if you're going to do it, I've got some pointers for you."

I spend the evening giving her tips that I've picked up in my brief exposure to this stuff. And in telling her, I realise that I know a lot about it. It's as though I've been in touch with this for years, but just didn't know it. I've gone from virgin to guru in just two or three D/s fuck sessions! Wild.

Near the end of the evening, I say to N., "Would you like me to pull your hair?"

"Oh! Oh yes please!" she purrs.

I pour her hair into my hand, wrapping it slowly around my fingers. With the other hand, I stroke her face, her neck. And I gradually apply force to her black hair. Delicately, I take her head backwards, forcing her chin to point at the ceiling. She's in the damned subspace zone. She's fully there. If I keep this up, she'll be coming without any sexual contact whatsoever. This is the biggest frigging rush! Oh man.

"Ditch the boyfriend," I say. I want to do stuff with this woman. Oh yeah. Oh.