So here's what will happen. We'll meet; it will be beautiful. I shall be debonair, charming, insightful, funny; it will be the paradigm of how intelligent and accomplished people should date in 21st century London. You will observe that I am exceptionally erudite; you'll be captured by my (genuinely interesting) academic research. You will feel a very small libidinous thrill when you notice that I am in exceptional physical shape––and not just for my age, either.

Because I appear so trustworthy and publicly visible, you'll think it only a small risk when I invite you up to my hotel room for a drink. What can happen? A kiss? Some caressing? Me waxing lyrical on your beauty in a way that's refreshingly original, given how many sincerity-filled, dull-as-ditchwater compliments you can get any time you like? So yes, why not: it's not like a professor is going to harm you, right?

Wrong. It'll start with a kiss–-that much is accurate. But when my hand settles on the back of your neck, it won't be to draw you closer with sweet poetic murmurings. No, it will be to flip you around and thrust you face-down on the bed. And when you are pinned and wriggling beneath my knee, you will come to understand that you have read this situation wrong from the beginning, and your narcissism has led you into the hands of a more imperious will than you have ever encountered before.

What happens next is down to you. You can experience your degradation as a trauma, and freeze in shock and horror as things are done to you that you did not even think were possible. But we both know that's not what will actually happen. No, instead you will finally yield to an atavism that was always in you, you will feel a feral heat that tells you this is what you crave: your utter negation at the hands of a more powerful being who utterly consumes you in the act of pleasure. The sacrificial victim has her place of honour, but she does not get to choose to be sacrificed.

And neither will you. Talk to me. Come and be sacrificed.