Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (17 page)

‘Oh, fucking hell, the key’s snapped,’ I cried.

‘Oh, fucking hell, it’s what!?’ he responded.

‘The fucking key, it’s broken off in the fucking lock. I can’t get the fucking cuffs unlocked.’

‘What do you mean, it’s fucking broken? Let me out for Christ’s sake!’

‘I’m fucking trying, but I don’t know what to do.’

I will leave the rest of this increasingly offensive conversation to your own imagination. I honestly cannot quite remember the next five minutes in any detail as the full horror of the situation struck home. I tried grasping the broken stump of the key with my fingernails in a vain attempt
to make it turn; Brian tried shouting (a lot) and banging his hand on the bed; I tried calm reasoning to work out a potential solution; Brian tried screaming, shouting and weeping with frustration.

‘What in God’s name am I going to do?’ he pleaded. ‘My wife’s coming home. How can I possibly explain what I’m doing like this?’

I have to confess that I was somewhat at a loss to offer him any positive answers. My customer was not just naked and handcuffed to the bed, but what I did not want to remind him of at that precise moment was that I had wrapped almost an entire roll of brown packing tape tightly around his testicles. Normally he would have had plenty of time to peel the tape off and dispose of it before his wife returned; now time was a luxury we no longer enjoyed. The pvc packing tape had softened slightly in the heat of his groin and his luxuriant growth of pubic hair appeared to be firmly stuck in the warm adhesive. He was literally ‘caught by the short and curlies’.

I tried a gentle tug at the end of the tape.

‘Aaargh, what the fuck are you doing? You’re pulling my bollocks off.’

‘I’m trying to help.’

‘Well, don’t.’

There was another issue which Brian seemed momentarily too distracted to consider but which was literally staring
me
in the face as he writhed on the bed in front of me. Purely to make him happy and increase his humiliation I had earlier taken a black marker pen and written a few choice endearments across his naked skin. The large handwritten words spelled out some of the obscenities with which he had
wanted to be described. I remember he had the word SLUT in perfectly crafted capital letters across his chest, WHORE across his abdomen, TEENY COCK precisely where it had seemed appropriate and – although he didn’t know it then – an arrow pointing sharply downwards across his back with the instructions FUCK HERE clearly printed across the top of his bum cheeks. Being the kind Mistress that I am, I had chosen a non-permanent ink and I knew from experience that a painful half-hour with a soapy scrubbing brush would have erased it completely. Unfortunately, that might now be 30 minutes too long.

Amid scenes approaching mad panic, I wondered if there was a hacksaw in the house but Brian was convinced his toolkit did not run to such luxuries. Then, I had a brainwave. The handcuffs had come with a spare key. The problem was, it was at my home, and that was almost a 30 minutes’ drive away. My client protested vociferously at the idea of me leaving him alone in the house but there was nothing else to do. As I left the bedroom he was frantically – and one-handedly – attempting to pluck adhesive and hairs from his taped nether regions. He had clearly decided that having his genitalia resembling a partially plucked turkey was going to be the least of his problems.

I drove as fast I could to the flat where I was temporarily staying with a friend in the course of my nomadic existence at the time. Running in, I grabbed the key, jumped back in the car and sped back to Brian’s home. Disaster! Whatever I did, the new key could not be inserted into the lock because of the broken stump firmly stuck in the mechanism. I thought, ‘This is ridiculous. I am going to
have
to find a hacksaw.’ So I had to
leave him again to look for a local hardware shop – even though by this time it was getting late. There was a B&Q store near me that shut at nine o’clock and I managed to drive there, buy a hacksaw and drive back yet again.

By this time Brian understandably seemed to have lapsed into a state of shock and deep panic and was pleading, ‘Oh my God. My wife… my wife… my wife is going to be home soon. You
have
to help me, please!’

Well at least we now had a hacksaw and so I started sawing away at the metal band around his wrist. But these were police-quality handcuffs, not cheap rubbish (I have always prided myself on buying the best-possible equipment) and I soon had to admit defeat.

‘I honestly don’t think I can get through this. The only answer is I to get somebody in. I’ll call the guy who sometimes drives me to come over and help.’

That idea seemed merely to send him deeper into panic-mode: ‘No, no you can’t do that!’

‘Please, Brian, let me get my driver because I cannot do this one my own. I can cover you with the duvet so he never even sees your face; you will just have your hand exposed, nothing else. I can’t cut through this myself.’

But Brian refused to countenance the idea and so I kept on sawing, sawing, sawing, making little headway. Then I concentrated on the smaller links in the chain. My arm was aching and I seemed to have been cutting for hours. Bear in mind that I had arrived about 7pm and by now it was approaching ten o’clock – and his wife due home within the hour. Eventually, even though I could not cut through the wrist band, I did manage to sever the links between the two
handcuffs and release him from the bed, leaving him with half a handcuff dangling from one wrist, and the other half still attached to the bedhead.

I exited the house as fast as I could because I knew I might bump into the wife coming home. I later heard from Brian that he had virtually demolished the bedhead to get the other handcuff band removed and had then fled to the sanctuary of his brother’s home to cut the bracelet off his wrist, for packing tape removal, obscenity graffiti scrubbing, and to compose himself before returning to domestic bliss.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ I said. ‘One day we’ll laugh at this.’

Brian did not seem to appreciate the joke.

A long time afterwards, I read in
The Times
that the London fire brigade was dealing with an increasing number of calls to domestic incidents in which people had locked themselves to the bed with handcuffs and then lost the key. The spokesman put this down to the ‘
50 Shades
effect’ and the consequent rise in amateur bondage games. Nothing new under the sun, I thought.

The only person in real danger in the aforementioned unfortunate incident was the client himself. But it did make me realise that working alone was both awkward and potentially highly dangerous if anything went wrong. From that point onwards I started using minicabs for my outcalls. It added greatly to my costs but brought a huge bonus in terms of personal safety. I always carried a walkie-talkie radio and let the client know that I was staying in contact with my driver outside until my checks were complete. Then, assuming I had found nothing untoward, I would check the money, start unpacking my little suitcase of BDSM goodies, and let the driver know how long I would be. Literally two minutes
before the hour or half-hour was up he would call and say ‘Time’ and then, if I did not reply, would knock on the door.

My anally retentive attitude to my safety did succeed in keeping me out of harm’s way until, that is, one night when a visit to a charming and harmless client turned into a nightmare, with a carving knife being waved in my face as I desperately tried to get out of the door.

CHAPTER 17

‘YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE…’

T
he situation could hardly have been worse. It was late at night in a strange house and I was being held hostage by an out-of-control, knife-wielding teenager furiously demanding to know what I was doing in his home.

In the background were a screaming, crying woman and her tearful, shame-faced husband. I was terrified and lost for words and, on the other side of the locked front door, was my driver, pounding with his fists in a vain attempt to come to my rescue. Welcome to the quiet and peaceful working world of the professional travelling dominatrix.

The evening had started so differently. I had taken a call from a client who had seen me before, had always paid me by cheque, and who had never been a moment’s trouble. He was a pleasant, middle-aged, softly-spoken Asian guy; a family
man, living in a quiet residential road in West London. He wanted an hour-long appointment. He wanted to worship my feet. What on earth could possibly go wrong?

Even though I had met the guy before I still went through the basics of my safety routine, making sure that we were alone in the house, warning my driver how long I would be, and safely tucking the client’s cheque into my bag. Then I led him up to a bedroom and ordered him to strip completely before laying down on the floor. I wanted his excitement to build gradually as I walked slowly up and down in my black leather, thigh-high boots. I insisted that he keep his head down on the carpet as I paused, teasingly, with the toe of my boot just inches from his face and summoned up my strictest voice:

‘Oh, my boots seem to be dirty. Just touch your lips on the leather gently; they are going to need cleaning. When I tell you, and
not
before, I want you tongue-worshipping and licking every inch of these heels.’

The harsher my voice became, and the more insistent I was that he follow my instructions precisely with no hint of dissent or free will, the more excited my client became. I allowed him to run his tongue slowly across the toe of each boot before lifting my leg slightly and demanding that he take the whole of the high heel deep into his mouth. He loved the humiliation of sucking each heel, particularly when I added to his shame by complaining how dirty my boots had become whilst walking to his home. ‘I don’t want a
speck
of dirt left on these. Get working… harder. That’s pathetic, your tongue is useless. Look, you’ve even managed to miss a bit.’

Although my footwear was now so clean that you could have eaten your dinner off the leather, I continued finding imaginary fault, making him twist and turn on the floor beneath me as I pointed out the awkward areas his tongue could not easily reach. It was important in order to give him the maximum satisfaction for his money that I make him wait a while for his ultimate reward: the touch and the taste of my bare feet.

In due course, I made him sit back on his haunches whilst I slowly unzipped and removed my thigh-high footwear and peeled off my stockings. His excitement was by now obvious and I knew he had earned his reward. Sitting back on the edge of the bed, I presented my feet for his inspection. ‘You can smell them from there, can’t you? Get
really
close but
no
touching. Now, you can lick them clean. Do
not
forget to clean in between my toes.’ Now, I am the first to admit that licking my toes at the end of a long working day may not be to everybody’s taste but it certainly worked for my client that night. He finally lost control of himself when I first pushed my whole foot into his mouth, stretching his lips apart just enough to cause a little distress and discomfort. A job well done, another satisfied customer and the chance for a friendly chat as he got dressed again and I slipped my worn stockings into my bag and popped my feet back into my boots. With his passion for feet now fulfilled, my client was happy, smiling, more self-confident and chatting away nineteen to the dozen. I could hardly get a word in edgeways as he talked about work, his family and…

That was the point at which we heard the front door opening downstairs.

A woman’s voice called out: ‘Harvir, we’re home.’

Perhaps not surprisingly, from the tens of thousands of clients I have met over nearly two decades, Harvir’s name has stuck in my memory. As I hurried out onto the upstairs landing I found ‘Mrs Harvir’ (as I have always thought of her since) standing on the stairs looking at me in amazement. Far more worryingly was her strapping teenage son, immediately behind her and already looking angry.

‘Stay there, don’t move. What are you doing in my house,’ the son demanded, not even pausing for an answer before disappearing into the kitchen and returning armed with a kitchen knife the size of a machete. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here, where is my father?’

I looked around to see that his father had by now appeared behind me. I was thinking, ‘Oh my fucking God…’ but trying to keep calm and saying: ‘Don’t ask me what I’m doing here, ask him.’ But my client had tears in his eyes and unsurprisingly had nothing to say for himself. It seemed as though the son’s questioning went on for ages but in reality it was just a few repeated demands for an explanation of my presence. I did not want to tell him the truth: that his naked father had just been sucking my toes; I thought it might inflame him further. Yet my refusal to say anything was also making him angry. As I stonewalled his questions I lifted the walkie-talkie to my lips and called for help.

‘Who are you talking to? What are you doing? Why are you here? What have you taken?’

‘I’ve not taken anything. Ask him who I am. I’m going now. I’m leaving.’

‘You’re not going anywhere till you tell me who you are,’ the
son said threateningly, moving closer still, with the blade clearly showing in his hand.