Curiosity is a dangerous thing …

(If you haven’t yet read Part 1 of this horror story - STOP - Read Part One Here)

Like catching a whiff of smoke in the air but seeing no fire, I sensed something wasn’t quite right.

I just wasn’t able to figure out where the problem lay.

Naturally, rather than walking away, I did what any self-respecting over thinker would do - I leaned in, determined to solve the puzzle. And, armed with all the intellectual conceit that a public school education bestows upon a man, I was quite certain I was up to the task.

Truly, hubris is a terrible thing!

A week into our increasingly intense phone calls, driven by her compulsive need to communicate, she announced that she wanted to come and visit me.

I agreed, somewhat flattered, somewhat apprehensive, and completely unaware of what I was about to unleash upon my otherwise peaceful existence.

The plan was simple enough: she’d take the train down that Friday evening and stay for the weekend. I asked about her arrangements for her daughter and made it clear they were both welcome - (not my preference, but I felt I should offer).

She told me her daughter was staying with a friend so she would come on her own.

Everything seemed settled.

The day before, I got a panicked call - her boss hadn’t paid her on time, and she’d have to cancel. She was sorry.

Disappointed, I simply bought her a ticket and sent her the link to use it.

Crisis averted.

I told my friend “P” - she rolled her eyes and told me I was an idiot. I proved it by telling her I wanted to give my new GF the benefit of the doubt!

Then, on the day of her arrival, another change of plans. She suddenly couldn’t make the earlier train because of work and would now be arriving closer to 9:00pm. Again, fine.

These things happen.

I received a fetching selfie of her, already seated on the train, looking effortlessly elegant as ever. All good. I thought I’d check the journey status - just to be sure. And that’s when my heart sank.

The railway line between Southampton and my hometown was due to be closed from 8:00pm until 6:00am for engineering works.

Of course it was - because why wouldn’t it be?

Clearly, fate wasn’t just nudging me - it was all but grabbing me by the lapels and screaming,

'Call it off!'

Still, I had a car. No problem. I’d drive to Southampton, pick her up, and bring her back.

A 35-minute journey, so I gave myself an hour, just to be safe. Sorted.

Except…

About ten minutes into the drive, I saw the first set of flashing signs. Motorway closed. Repairs between 8:00pm and 6:00am.

“Bollocks!”

The words echoed around the car - I’d practically shouted them.

At this point, the universe had moved beyond subtle hints and was now actively waving red flags in my face. And yet, for reasons not entirely linked to being horny (though, let’s be honest, not entirely unlinked either), I chose to ignore them.

With my planned route now resembling the kind of drunken stagger home you attempt two hours and four drinks later than you should have, I had to think fast.

Fortunately, I knew the New Forest well - I’d cycled its winding roads for years. I could take an alternative route, though it was far from ideal.

Narrow country lanes, no street lighting, and a high probability of a deer launching itself suicidally into my path.

Still, it was the only option remaining.

I pulled over briefly to send a frantic text:

And no response. Brilliant. There was nothing left to do but drive.

And so began one of the most chaotic cross-country dashes of my life.

Rain drizzled against the windscreen as I weaved through roads better suited to a daytime rally - ideally in a Subaru Impreza, not my sluggish, underpowered, two-wheel-drive automatic, which handled with all the grace of a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel and a death wish.

Every shadow in the trees felt like it could be a deer.

Every twist in the lane felt like a potential disaster.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking, and my date - who already seemed prone to bouts of mysterious irritation - would be waiting - in the dark at a deserted train station - hardly the ideal start to a romantic weekend in the country!

By the time I finally pulled into Southampton station, I was twenty minutes late, slightly traumatised, and very relieved I hadn’t ended up in a ditch.

She, however, did not seem anywhere near as relieved!

The term ‘Russian widow’ leapt unbidden into my mind…

I suddenly remembered our talk in Battersea Park - just a week previously, “No, I’m not divorced. I’m widowed. My husband was killed by the FSB.”

Even though she didn’t seem to have much in the way of facial expressions or empathy in that moment - and yet, I still felt sorry for her.

A revelation struggled at the edge of my consciousness - one I wasn’t quite ready to face. A difficult mother. Love that always felt conditional. The quiet, lifelong instinct to appease, to understand, to fix.

And now, this Russian.

Her hand placed without warning on my upper thigh, pulling me back into the present. The previous thoughts slipped away before I could fully grasp them.

I looked up and met her gaze - her expression transformed.

She was suddenly smiling.

She held my gaze for a moment longer than felt natural, her smile lingering, eyes unreadable. Then, just as suddenly, she exhaled, relaxed into the seat, and her hand crept a little higher up my thigh.

"You came through for me," she murmured, squeezing her hand - like a cat kneading its paws into you while purring.

I hesitated.

There was something about the way she said it - like I’d just completed a test I hadn’t realised I was taking.

"Well," I said lightly, "of course I did! I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there before your train arrived."

She tilted her head, amused, as if I were missing the point entirely.

The tension from earlier dissolved. By the time we reached my place, she was laughing at my jokes, stroking my arm, and giving me the kind of lingering glances that suggested the night wasn’t over.

She stepped inside, kicked off her trainers, and disappeared into the bathroom to shower.

I busied myself in the kitchen, throwing together a light snack and mentally debriefing the absolute circus of the evening.

Then she reappeared.

Fresh from the shower, wrapped from the waist down in nothing but a towel - her chest was bare - because of course it was!

All thought of a late supper evaporated from my mind.

She padded across the room, almost on tip toe, with the kind of slow, deliberate grace that made it clear: this was a performance.

It felt like an upmarket cabaret at the Moulin Rouge - except the stage, the spotlight, and the entire performance were for an audience of one.

Before I could react, she was on me.

The towel, as if obeying some unseen cue, slipped free in the movement.

Here’s the thing - when I say she was enthusiastic, I don’t mean in the way new lovers sometimes are.

This wasn’t passion - it was force of will.

She moved with intent. Not seeking connection, not lost in the moment, but driving toward a very specific outcome.

And that outcome, it seemed, was me losing control and arriving rapidly at a destination!

Now, this is where we ran into a problem.

Because, unbeknownst to her, I have ADHD.

My brain rarely, if ever, switched off. It doesn’t melt into sensation or lose itself in some fevered, cinematic climax.

It narrates.

It observes.

It critiques.

It wonders if we need more milk in the morning, for breakfast.

And if her strategy relied on overwhelming me into submission - on making me dissolve into the experience, compliant and adoring - it wasn’t working.

Looking back, I realise now: she must have been used to manipulating men with her body.

The problem?

I’ve recognised over decades - I’m far from ‘typical’.

So while she chased the moment, I remained stuck inside my own head - a detached spectator, quietly watching her cycle through what was, objectively speaking, an impressive sexual repertoire, all in the name of ensuring my seduction.

And at some point - long past the hour of good decisions - she gave up out of sheer exhaustion, while I lay there in blessed relief that my appendage was still attached and not completely broken. We finally collapsed into sleep.

She curled into me like a woman securing a prize, her body wrapped around mine, possessive.

I lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, my mind still ticking over.

Had I been able to quiet it - had I been able to step outside myself and really see - I might have realised this wasn’t about intimacy.

It was about control.

Instead, I was left marvelling at the sheer energy she’d put into ‘giving me a good time’ - as if pleasure could be achieved through sheer force of will.

I know. Idiot, right?

I woke to the distinct sensation of being observed.

Not just glanced at.

Not the drowsy, affectionate gaze of a lover waking beside you.

No - full-on, unwavering, eyes-wide-open staring. And worse - her face was less than twelve inches from mine.

Far too close. Way too intense.

I’m sure the intention was to be passionate, intimate even.

Instead, I found it unsettling.

And as my brain clawed its way to consciousness, I became aware of something else.

Her hand.

Working me awake.

Quite literally. Very insistently!

It seemed that, after a brief intermission, we were set to repeat the entire performance - all before breakfast.

Because, clearly, in her opinion, the night’s exertions hadn’t yet sealed the deal.

The rest of the weekend followed a strange and relentless rhythm.

Shoot. Shag. Eat. Repeat.

Let me explain.

I took her to my local shooting range - it’s a hobby I enjoy.

Somehow this lesson in firing a rifle safely and effectively turned, as we were leaving, into an impromptu woodland tryst - because apparently, the thought of a sniper rifle in my hands had awakened something deeply primal in her.

Later in the day, a trip to the beach seemed less about enjoying the sea air and more about seeing how much she could get away with under a towel before an elderly dog-walker called the police.

Back home? Same story.

By Sunday afternoon, I was thoroughly exhausted and broken in, like a horse that had been ridden too far and put away wet.

At the train station, she kissed me - hard, deliberate, theatrical - then pirouetted and waved from the carriage door, rising onto tiptoe, smiling like a woman who’d just ‘sealed the deal’.

I drove home, a man in desperate need of rest, hydration, electrolytes, and possibly an exorcism!

And then, on Tuesday night - when I was just beginning to recover - she sent a message.

"I can’t speak tonight Mark, I have something important to do."

Very cryptic. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an invitation for conversation. It was a statement. And then two days later, something came through my letter box.

A Declaration in Ink

It was a small pink envelope, handwritten in precise, looping script.

The name and address were inscribed in Royal Blue ink, the kind that only comes from a fountain pen.

I turned the letter over in my hands.

The weight of the paper. The feel of the ink beneath my fingertips.

Even the faintest trace of perfume - subtle, floral, deliberate.

She wanted this to be an experience.

A text from my Russian girlfriend - newly returned to London, yet somehow still omnipresent - flashed on my screen.

"Did you get my letter?"

I sighed, reached for my letter knife (because yes, I still use one), and sliced the envelope open.

Inside - four carefully scribed pages.

Four pages of undying love…

I read it once.

Then again.

I wasn’t taken in. Not really.

But I also couldn’t quite believe someone would go to all that trouble if their feelings weren’t genuine.

That’s what made it dangerous.

It was so alien to my own behaviour that it was just believable enough.

I wanted to call “P” - my best female friend.

I needed her voice of reason.

But it was too late at night.

It would have to wait until morning.

What would she say?

The Letter had been a warning.

I just hadn’t realised it.

Not yet.

Because next came a day in London - her daughter in tow, her stories growing darker.

The evil boss. The stolen wealth. The Russian state conspiring against her. The looming threat of homelessness.

And then, a moment that should have made me stop and think.

I asked her daughter how she was.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "I hate my mother."

No hesitation. No elaboration. Just cold, flat certainty.

And yet, somehow, whilst I heard it, I still didn’t really hear it.

And threaded through it all, like a chorus in a tragic opera:-

"Are you a serious man, Mark?"

The real test was about to begin.

🔹 Stay tuned for the next episode of From Russia with Love (Bomb): My Dating Disaster with a Narcissist Part 3. (of 6)

🔹 Because some traps aren’t sprung all at once.

Special thanks (again) to Francis F for reminding me I’d promised to share the rest of this one - life’s been so busy I nearly forgot!

What’s Your Worst Online Dating Disaster?

Share your stories - or your hard-earned advice - in the comments!

Let’s trade war stories from the trenches of modern dating - because surely someone has a tale that rivals this Hitchcock-meets-Bridget-Jones fever dream.

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