Some years later I was walking up Piccadilly in London’s west end, when I was startled from my thoughts by someone calling my name.
I turned and saw that it was a woman, who only seconds before I had just walked straight by.
For a moment, I was at a loss as to who this woman was who had called out my name, a name known only to those who inhabit my world of D/s.
“It’s me, Rosina”, this woman said, “don’t you remember me?”
Momentarily I was lost for a reply, for of course I remembered Rosina, it was a rare day I had not thought of her and cursed myself for missing the chance she had offered me to possess that which I had coveted so painfully all those years ago.
But this was not the Rosina I knew.
Embarrassingly, we exchanged pleasantries. I asked her how she was and she said well, which belied her looks and figure which had become anorexic and ugly.
She asked me if I was still a Master and I said that I was and had a good young submissive at that moment whom I was training.
I asked her if she had a Master and she nodded, seeming to not want to go further on the subject.
I told her that I had, because of my work, moved to the Midlands.
She said she still lived in North London, and could never imagine living anywhere else.
One dead end question led to another and at last, I said that I had to go as I had a train to catch and a seat booked.
The awkwardness of the moment was unbearable.
We were like two lovers who had fallen out of love over some silly dispute and both regretted our stubbornness, but would not concede our guilt.
Finally, I made a move to go and as I did Rosina caught my arm.
She looked at me with such sadness that I felt my heart melt.
“You could have saved me,” she said and let go of my arm and walked away.
I never heard from or about her again, and to this day I do not know what cards fate dealt her.
I often wondered if what Rosina had said that day on Piccadilly was true, and did I deserve the guilt she so obviously believed I should carry for her degeneration.
Perhaps I could have saved her.
But then again, perhaps, she could have ruined me.
Was it ever that important?
