Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (18 page)

At that moment there was a thunderous knocking on the door. My driver was earning his fee that night by all but beating the door down in an attempt to reach me. I could hear him shouting: ‘Miranda! Miranda! Are you OK?’

I have to admit I was so frightened that the next few moments are something of a blur. My client was mumbling incoherently, his wife was bawling and bawling, the son was screaming at me, and my driver was shouting my name. Then somebody opened the door, the son was distracted, I fled downstairs and pushed past into the garden. My driver and I ran to the car and drove off with furious shouts still ringing out after us. We were safe but I was shaking – and then a horrible thought came over me. The client had paid me by cheque and the chances of that cheque clearing had just diminished substantially. That ordeal may well have all been for nothing.

The next day I had a phone call from a woman who asked to speak to ‘Miranda’. I hardly ever admit who I am to a cold caller on the telephone; too many callers just want to try and get a cheap thrill out of playing with themselves while they talk to me. So, I came out with my stock reply: ‘I’m her receptionist, how can I help?’

‘Oh I don’t know if you know this,’ she replied, ‘but yesterday Miranda came to my house to see my husband.’

‘No I don’t know anything about that; she would never tell me that sort of detail anyway, I just take her bookings.’

‘I’ve been up all night and I just need to know the truth. Can you please ask if Miranda did anything with my husband?’

‘Well obviously I don’t know the answer to that,’ I said, ‘and Miranda’s busy but if you call back in an hour I’ll try to get hold of her and get an answer for you.’

So I got off the phone and I was thinking, ‘Oh my God. What do I do now?’

Then the woman phoned back and I took a guess at what it was she wanted to hear: ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to Miranda and she said that she had literally just arrived.’

‘Thank God, that’s what my husband said as well.’

‘Yeah, Miranda says that nothing happened at all, she had just got there and then you both turned up.’

‘Thank you, thank you, he told me that but I didn’t believe him.’

A few days later the cheque he had paid me cleared through my bank. A good result all round I felt: I got my fee and, as far as I know, his marriage was saved… and possibly, if he ever got the courage to discuss his desires with his wife, even improved.

The incident did make me think for a while about the morality of the work I was doing; not immediately because I was too busy thinking, ‘Oh my God, I hope I don’t get stabbed’, but later when the danger was passed. I concluded that I wasn’t in any position to consider the moral rights and wrongs of the married men who booked me because I just didn’t have any knowledge at all about their lives or the state of the relationships. Equally, and for much the same reason, nobody had any right to make a moral judgment about me. I could see nothing wrong with what I was doing and I didn’t feel then – and I don’t feel now – any guilt whatsoever. I am glad, however, that by pure chance I picked the excuse that
his wife had been hoping to hear when she called. I was glad to help dispel her worries. And he had seemed like a nice guy; a decent man who was just unlucky to be caught.

Night-time shenanigans apart, my burgeoning dominatrix career seemed to be going well. The money was keeping the wolf from the door; I was losing my inhibitions, collecting new equipment and getting better at my job all the time.

Suddenly having more money rolling in was a double-edged sword. Working into the early hours of the morning meant that I started to oversleep and miss a few lectures; but on the other hand I was able to buy a small motorbike which made travelling to university vastly easier, until I wrote it off in a silly accident in which, thankfully, nobody except me got hurt. I was still in touch with my grandparents and I was paranoid about them finding out about my new source of sudden wealth. I pretended to them that I’d taken a night job in a taxi office, manning the radio dispatch desk. That one lie served two valuable functions: explaining how I had money and what I was doing at night.

There was at least some grain of truth in my story about the taxi company; I may not have been working for them but one of their drivers was by now working for me. On several occasions I found myself with the same late-night cabbie dropping me at appointments, holding onto my radio and generally ensuring that I was not totally alone when I visited strange men’s houses. He earned some generous tips from me and, of course, almost immediately cottoned on to exactly what my business was. It would have been hard for him not to notice, given the unusual equipment case I took with me on
my travels. By this stage of my life I had not had anything like a regular lover for years, really from when I had split up with my first love, Tom. I was virtually celibate because I was working all the hours God sends and never had time to meet guys. My life was quite lonely because of the turbulent relationship I’d had with my family for years and I was also distanced from my peers at university. I had a secret life that I couldn’t talk about with them and they were generally less mature and a lot less worldly-wise than me.

Meeting someone like my taxi-driver, who I’ll call Frank, meant that I could at least talk about my work without being paranoid that my secret would be revealed to the world. He may not have been particularly intelligent or intellectually satisfying for me but it was very convenient. That, I fear, may sound mercenary and opportunistic but it really wasn’t like that: I was just very much alone. He started flirting with me and I thought, ‘Oh, what the hell… why not?’

I can’t quite remember the moment when my driver turned into my lover but it was perhaps inevitable, given the amount of time we spent in the car together and the fact that I didn’t have time to meet any ‘normal’ men, outside of the submissives who were hiring my services. We sort of skipped out the dating stage and went straight in, from casual friendship to long-term relationship – going from driving to shagging without dating. I can’t even remember our first kiss, it was that unmemorable, but it was a relationship that was to last for the next six years.

Frank started asking me to go round to his home but I was at first almost as wary of him as I was of my routine clients. I knew that he lived with several other cab drivers and it was
one of my golden rules never to find myself alone in a house with more than one man. But by now we were at the kissing and fumbling stage of our relationship and there came a point where I could no longer find excuses not to go home with him. I remember being nervous and thinking: ‘Oh God, he’s the only one who usually knows when I am alone with a client and now it’s
his
house that I will be going to.’ In the end I scribbled a hurried note and left it on the kitchen table of the flat that I had just moved into: ‘If anything happens to me I’ve gone to this address…’

Our night together was fine, although sex with him was unadventurous and not really to my taste. The one thing he had going for him was that he had previously worked for a whole cross-section of late-night society, working girls, drug-dealers and all sorts. So I think I started dating him more because of convenience and also because he was tolerant to what I was doing. Although our relationship was rather vanilla, it was handy to stay with him because he had no issue with what I did.

I was now in the second year of university and earning a great deal of money; studying by day and working all kinds of stupid late nights. I would whack my phones on as soon as I got back from college in the evening and answer calls through until about two or three o’clock in the morning. Other students often came into university tired and a little worse the wear from late-night drinking sessions. I didn’t drink at all but my early morning lectures were hell because I had been dominating three or four men in appointments most of the night. The upside was that I was making serious money. My
rates then were around £60 for the rare half-hour appointments and about £110 for a full hour of me being cruel and sadistic to my customers. Compared with the pittance I got for my previous cleaning jobs it meant that I could earn in an hour what I used to earn in a week. The income was somewhat unreliable and sporadic: some nights I made comparative fortunes whilst on other evenings the phone didn’t ring. Even so, in what seemed like no time at all, I managed to save up more than £10,000 in cash.

Having that much money was a crossroads moment in my life. I thought, ‘What the hell am I going to do with this? I can either copy what my friends are doing and take a year out of uni to travel the world, or I can buy a house.’ Remembering how my grandparents had struggled for money all their lives, the idea of starting out on the first steps of building my own property empire was always going to be the favourite. In the end, I put the money down as a deposit on a flat in London, and carried on both working and studying just as I had done till then. My little flat was right next to a station, which I thought would increase its future rental potential, and it cost me £40,000. I think I put down about £8000 in cash as a deposit and got a mortgage for the rest. I was, to be honest, quite proud of myself. The flat I had moved into was the first home I had ever owned. I was just 21 years old, still a student – and suddenly I was a property owner.

My experience of university was nothing like that of my peers. I was never part of the usual uni social scene. When I had the time to join in, I didn’t have the money. When I had the money, I certainly didn’t have the time. When final exams
came around I got a 2.1 which I was sort of pleased with. I probably could have done better but, to be honest, you know, just like anything, you could have done better.

CHAPTER 18

KINKIER AND KINKIER

I
thought I was a tough cookie but there’s not much that can prepare a young woman for the kinkier side of life as a dominatrix. From the very first session onwards I was doing things that were so far from anything I had done before that I couldn’t help but be shocked. It was not as if I had not heard of all of the things that I was now being asked to do: there is after all not much that one doesn’t learn when answering the phone in a London brothel. Yet there is a big difference between hearing about the sort of things that go on and being alone in a room with a complete stranger who is expecting you to do them.

One such moment came very early on for me when a guy asked me to stick my fingers in his rear, and I was thinking: ‘Oh, I’m not going to have to do that, am I?’ It was one thing inserting a rubber sex toy into someone’s bottom but putting
my fingers in was ‘Oh my God, what am I doing here?’ To make things worse, I wasn’t 100 per cent sure exactly what I was supposed to do once my fingers were inserted, and that lack of confidence was putting me off as well. The experience felt very much like crossing another boundary and all I can say is that once you have crossed that bridge then it is nothing; you almost wonder what all the fuss was about. It is after all the sort of thing that nurses and doctors have to get used to all of the time.

It was the same ‘never done that before’ challenge with watersports. The first time that a man asked me to pee on him I realised that urinating on demand can be the hardest thing ever. It should be easy but in those early days it was not easy at all. ‘Watersports’ seemed to be a particular domination fetish for some Arab men who liked to lie on the floor and play with themselves whilst I stood over them and peed. That can be hard to do while somebody is down on the floor looking up your skirt. There were plenty of times when I felt as though I needed to ‘go’ but I couldn’t get to that point. It was awful; the poor guy would be underneath me, masturbating harder and harder and waiting for the big event but it just wouldn’t happen. Then you think: ‘I have drunk so much, why can’t I let it go?’

I saw a television documentary a while back about a famous Australian brothel. One of the women had a watersports client booked but had the same problem. She was drinking and drinking and drinking and I recognised that feeling at once because I used to try and do that to make myself pee. The answer is, however, that you don’t need to over-drink; as long as you have drunk
something
and you give yourself
time, then nature will eventually take its course. Part of the problem in the early days when I was taking domination calls in a brothel was that there wasn’t always time to allow that to happen. With no appointments system, men used to turn up out of the blue and expect you to be able to pee straightaway. One day I had three clients, one after the other, all of whom wanted watersports. I said ‘yes’ on the phone without thinking through the consequences. The first guy got splattered, the second one got a little damp and the last one had his belly-button filled and had to be happy with that; the well had run dry.

It didn’t take long working in a brothel for me to overcome that inhibition. The weird thing is that even after I had become a professional domme and could pee at will over the men, there were still parts of my body that I was reluctant to show. I am a lot braver in my choices of clothing these days than I would ever have been before. Back then I could stand over somebody and pee on them with no trouble at all, yet wearing a short skirt and having my thighs out on show was a complete no-no.

These days, with a couple of decades of practice behind me, I can pee on demand whenever and wherever I wish. A regular supply of coffee helps but I’ve long since beaten that psychological barrier that stops the flow flowing. The same cannot be said about the guys who come to visit me. It’s usually a complete waste of time to demand that they piss in front of me. One guy recently was insistent that he wanted to try something he’d never tried before and so I came up with what I thought was a particularly creative idea to satisfy his need for novelty. Without going into all the hydraulic
detail, it involved a catheter condom, a lot of rubber tubing, an enema nozzle and tipping my medical bench slightly in order that he could piss into his own backside. The engineering arrangements worked fine but the human element let me down. I tried a number of nurses’ well-worn tricks, such as leaving a tap running and leaving the room so he could pee in private, but nothing could induce the tiniest drop from his body.