Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (16 page)

Assuming, however, that my caller was still on the line, I would have a brief discussion about the desires they had or would perhaps even prompt them slightly to be honest about whatever fantasy floated their particular boat. It might be rubber, or leather, or the idea of tight bondage and being teased and denied. Some would ask how hard I could cane them, or whether ‘watersports’ were on offer – never a problem with my ever-ready bladder! The answers from me would always be honest, but always brief. Women in any branch of the adult industry soon become experts in identifying and dismissing the telephone wankers desperate for a cheap thrill and too mean to pay for their pleasures. I enjoy masturbation as much as the next girl but I would rather you performed it as a solo activity, instead of down the telephone line with me. In these internet-days it is easy for me or my reception service to simply ask for such requests to be put in an email; in my younger days I had to rely on telephone skills to reach a verdict about a caller.

Occasionally the initial call would flag up some danger signs. ‘There are a couple of us here, me and my friend – can you see us both at the same price?’ Such questions automatically earned the reply, ‘Sorry, I only do one-to-one calls’, and I would keep a note of the phone number. That way, if they called back again I would know not to go there. In those days few people had mobile phones and so I would always call back the landline number to make sure it was
correct and then check that the phone code matched the address they had given. Sometimes, despite all my precautions, I would get calls I called ‘scrubs’, time-wasters who had given a false address or where nobody answered the door. The number of scrubs varied depending on the time of night and you could generally get a feel for them. Sometimes I would think, ‘Hmmm I’m not 100 per cent sure’, but if I had nothing else going I would take a chance. Sometimes I would get a whole evening of time-wasters, whilst on other evenings everybody would prove to be a genuine call.

Most of the requests were for one-hour visits, although on a quiet night I would accept half-hour sessions: ‘whipping and wanking’ I used to call them. On the shorter sessions it was difficult to always change into the right outfit. Obviously if the client had requested a specific scenario then I would change but I didn’t want to spend my time messing about. By the time I got in and had a quick check around, from the moment I walked in the door that clock was ticking. I would be very, very strict with the time-keeping because I think I charged, when I first started out, £60 for a half hour, £120 for an hour but then it rapidly went up to £150 because that was what everyone else was charging.

Arriving at a private house triggered an automatic safety routine that I followed religiously. If the house had different curtains at different windows then it was likely to be a set of bedsits and therefore potentially more dangerous; if the engine of a car outside was warm, it suggested somebody had just arrived; and if more than one car was warm I would not go in. I would pause by the door and listen; if I heard a conversation
I would not go in. My aim was to only enter houses where there was just one guy, hopefully the man who had arranged to meet me.

Once inside I would emulate the guests on the modern-day television series
Come Dine With Me
and insist on having a good look around the entire house. On occasions I have found somebody hiding in another room and have even walked in on young children fast asleep in the nursery while daddy was arranging a bedtime story of his very own. For a while I was paranoid about wardrobes because a man once called me up and teased me that he had watched me in a session with his friend by hiding inside the bedroom cupboard. After that, my checks always included opening wardrobe doors; I never found anybody hiding inside but did uncover hidden cameras trained on the bed. I had no wish to contribute unwittingly to anybody’s private collection of adult movies.

The routine was similar for hotel visits, slightly safer because I would always have checked out who was occupying the room, but with the added complication of having to pass hotel security. How one dressed was all-important. I had a selection of wigs because you would not want your appearance to become known to the security staff in the major Heathrow hotels, for instance. Then I would usually be wearing fetish clothes of some kind, covered with a big coat which made mid-summer calls a nightmare. I had one favourite coat for a long time that I bought second-hand in Portobello Road market just because it was great for hiding a multitude of ‘sins’. To add to the problem of being inappropriately dressed in hot weather, I would have to wear boots so as not to carry them with me, although I always had
a pair of high-heel stilettos as well in my travelling case. Boots or stilettos would fit the bill for most of my clients.

Only once was I chased out by the hotel security – well actually they didn’t chase me out, they followed me up to the room. Understandably, the security guys wanted to keep an eye on who was coming in and out of their hotel but luckily my client had mentioned that the staff seemed vigilant and so had given me his real name. As he opened the door I was able to say, ‘Hi John, haven’t seen you in ages.’ And that solved the problem.

The case I would take with me on all of my appointments was a carefully selected little chamber of horrors. The exact contents would vary depending on what the client might have requested and I would have plenty of bits and pieces in the car to select exactly the mix that might please. The most important tools for the job were usually a strap-on dildo, a whip, a crop and some form of fetish outfit. I had something rubber, something leather and something PVC and a couple of specific uniforms such as a policewoman and a teacher’s gown. Then came the basics of latex gloves, condoms, tissues and always a bag to put rubbish in. I would squeeze in a few ropes, some leather cuffs, a set of clothes pegs and a set of nipple clamps. Depending on what the client had requested, I might also be equipped with a spare pair of stockings and super-sized knickers in which to dress him up.

With my commercial head on, I would always have a few printed cards as well; you need to do all that you can to encourage repeat business from satisfied customers. As I gained more experience I was always seeking to improve my service and to give the customer more of what they wanted. It
meant that I was steadily picking up more stuff; I had to buy a riding crop for example following a customer’s request. Then someone else would ask for something different, and so I was always adding new items.

One of the earliest additions to my stock was a set of heavy-duty, professional police-issue handcuffs. It was impossible to escape from them without the key, which one night was to lead to near-disaster. Although I had been playing BDSM games since my schooldays, I was still very much a learner when it came to the intricacies of human bondage. I did not then have the experience to understand the importance of Murphy’s Law, that old adage that states: ‘If anything
can
go wrong… it
will
go wrong.’

The man with whom I discovered the terrible truth of Murphy’s Law was more than a little tied up at the time. In fact, he was handcuffed naked to the metal bedpost in his own house. By this time I had gained a number of regular customers who appeared to appreciate my genuine enthusiasm for bullying, beating, humiliating or teasing them into submission. Among these was Brian. In his mid-thirties, tall and slim with attractive dark curly hair, he was, in truth, not bad-looking and in other circumstances he might have caught my eye for more non-professional reasons. I was with him that night, however, on a strictly commercial basis and neither of us had any interest in an extra-marital affair. He simply needed regular visits from me to make his sexual life complete because his wife, whom he clearly adored, did not share his passion for bondage and humiliation.

Brian had developed a regular routine. Once every few
months, presumably for some family reason which he never revealed to me, his wife would go out for the evening. She never returned before 11pm at the earliest. On those evenings he would book me for a two-hour session at his home. We had a strict timetable to which we always adhered. I would arrive no later than 7pm, we would spend a bare minimum of time on greeting each other and he would then demand to be tied-up and humiliated in every way that I could imagine. At 9pm on the dot I would depart. Although I never saw the aftermath, I always presumed that Brian then spent the next two hours making beds and cleaning rooms to ensure than no trace of my presence was ever left behind to alert his wife to my temporary presence in their home.

The arrangement had worked perfectly smoothly on several occasions before the fateful night of my birthday-eve. I had arrived dressed smartly but not overtly sexily. As usual I was freshly showered and scrupulously clean but without any trace of perfume or body lotion that might linger and cause my client subsequent marital problems. By contrast, Brian met me at the door stark naked. His bursting erection was a clear signal of his eagerness to get on with the job in hand. In my youthful enthusiasm to constantly improve my domination skills, I was also keen to head for the bedroom. I had purchased a new bondage toy that week and was eager to show it off. On previous visits I had tied Brian’s arms to the bedhead and then, as a climax to the evening’s events, I had released his right arm so that he might masturbate himself to orgasm whilst I continued to provide the humiliation he desired. That transition from helpless bondage to one-handed freedom, although necessary for him to gain the release he
craved, had always proved awkward. The need to fumble and untie the knots holding just
one
of his hands, whilst leaving the other firmly bound, could not help but spoil the mood which I had worked hard to create. Now I had found the answer: a set of metal handcuffs. These were not mere Anne Summers sex shop toys, but police-issue, inescapable, hardened-metal cuffs that could be opened only with their key.

It was but the work of a moment to handcuff Brian’s left wrist to the railings of the bedhead, calming his moment of panic by teasingly dangling the key in front of his eyes and then dropping it safely down into my cleavage. The inside of my bra, and the depths of my knickers, were two havens which all of my clients knew they would never be able to reach. Once he was secured, I set about my evening’s task of humiliating him in every way I could. For starters, that usually involved me heaping verbal abuse on his head, telling him how pathetic he looked in the nude, how perverted he was – and how inadequate was his penis.

To divert from my story for a moment, I should point out that a truly astonishing number of men want me to tell them their penis is too small to satisfy a woman. I understand, of course, that penis size strikes at the very heart of their male sense of worth and that it is therefore an easy target, so to speak, for anyone who wishes to enjoy feelings of humiliation and degradation. Even so, I have struggled over the years to understand why even perfectly adequately endowed men seem happy and excited to be shamed in this way. My only answer is that the very act of openly criticising the size of a cock may remove the pressure on said cock to perform. If my teasing words can release a client from any
need to compete with every other cock in the world then he may as well lay back and enjoy whatever sensations are being inflicted upon him.

Just for the record, the latest scientific research suggests that the mean length of an erect member is about 5.88 inches (14.9 centimetres) That is a little less than was once thought, a correction required because early studies has asked men to measure themselves – about as unreliable a method as you could possibly devise. My own experience of many, many tens of thousands of penises over decades of intimate research suggests that such a measurement may still be a tad on the generous size. Many men are in reality somewhat smaller than the theoretical research suggests. It just goes to show that you can prove anything with the proverbial lies, damned lies or statistics but I should perhaps mention that I have a slightly vested interest in the matter. My own preference is for a partner as well-endowed as possible, preferably a substantial penis attached to a muscular, body-builder’s physique. In the still of the night, however, few men of any size can measure up to the lure of my Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator (or, as the say on television, ‘other vibrator brands are available’).

However, putting penises to one side for the moment and returning to the thread of my handcuffs story, I was having fun insulting Brian with the sharp end of my tongue, mixing all the verbal abuse I could muster with a few accompanying slaps to his most sensitive regions plus a fair bit of saliva for good measure. Brian enjoyed me spitting all over his body and had a particular taste for being told to open his mouth whilst I spat forcibly between his lips. He didn’t mind if it was my natural saliva or if I took drinks of water to wet my whistle before
spraying his face and body; anything suitably wet and perverted would do. I had already moved onto some other humiliating games when I realised that a change of position was needed.

From my earliest days as a fledgling dominatrix, I was well aware that the human body was never designed to be strapped in any one position for long. The dangers of cramp, of restricting blood supply and even, in extreme cases, of thrombosis are all too real. I have always made it a strict rule to regularly demand a change of position to avoid any interruptions to my games. In this case that meant that retrieving the key from my underwear in the most teasing way possible and then unlocking the handcuffs still securing his left arm to the headrail. I am sure you are already ahead of me in knowing what happened next. I should say in advance that I am never one for swearing where it can possibly be avoided – but sometimes, as in the opening scenes of
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, only oft-repeated swear words will do.