Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (2 page)

Come with me now on a tour of that dungeon. I should perhaps say ‘those dungeons’ because here you’ll find room after room of erotic and exotic equipment designed to stretch your senses and your body. You will, of course, only ever arrive at my door by appointment, perhaps from an initial and somewhat nervous telephone call or after an inquiring email to one of my websites. It used to be that I would answer every telephone inquiry myself, but with business so brisk, these days you may find yourself speaking with my professional answering service. A well-spoken young woman will discreetly ascertain that you wish to make an appointment with Miss Miranda before consulting my diary for an available date. It’s an interesting sign of the times that my executive answering service has no more qualms about handling the affairs of a London dominatrix than it does about answering the calls of the businessmen and bankers who make up the bulk of their trade. On reflection… they probably consider that, compared with a banker, my adult-industry job makes
me
the more morally upright member of their clientele.

Whichever way you make initial contact, I will have asked for an email summarising your desires, with an outline of your sexual preferences and brief details of the particular services you require. The key word here is ‘brief’. The emails I receive could form a book in themselves. A few will be concise and to the point: ‘Rubber please – spanking and bondage – boot worship and breath control.’ Others, despite my demand for brevity, run to pages of elaborate prose explaining scenarios of abduction, kidnap, interrogation and lengthy sentences of incarceration within the walls of my dungeon cells. For both of our sakes, I need to get inside your head before our session starts and understand your private fantasy needs. However, with the best will in the world, I rarely have time to read your 15 pages of erotica, eagerly describing every much-anticipated lash of my whip or detailing in boy-scout enthusiasm the precise knots you hope I will use to bind you to my bondage bench. We dominatrices call such behaviour ‘topping from the bottom’ – attempting to control every step of a session and leaving little room for our own cruel and creative contribution. I hate being constrained in that way because it removes all of the fun of my own input into our games. So, whether you are a lustful man or a curious woman, just place yourself, without reservation, into my not-so-tender hands and we’ll both enjoy the experience so much more.

Entering my premises, you will be shown upstairs to the main dungeon and allowed a brief time alone to compose your thoughts and perhaps shower away the cares of your day. Here, your nervous excitement can build to the maximum. Around you sit the instruments of restriction, teasing and torment which may shortly be employed upon your body.
Interrogators from mediaeval times onwards have long known the value of their victims’ imagination. I recently read a history of the Inquisition from which one passage has stuck in my mind: ‘The accused would then be shown the various contraptions of torture… the majority broke down easily and the application of the machines was unnecessary.’

Being somewhat more civilised than the Inquisition, I prefer to think of this worrying anticipation as a form of foreplay, an exciting interlude before our quasi-sexual encounter commences. Many first-time clients, particularly the women and couples, wander nervously around the room. They study but rarely dare to touch the large and scary pieces of equipment and the displays of clamps, hoods, gas-masks, open-mouthed dental gags and intriguing medical instruments that line the walls. The men tend to sit quietly, awaiting their fate. Could it be that women are simply the more naturally curious gender, or possibly that they are the braver? The truth is that I’ve designed this waiting period to heighten your senses for what is to come. You and I are about to engage in a fascinating theatrical drama. I need you in the most receptive of moods to truly appreciate my grand entrance upon the stage.

In due course you hear the slow footfall of my high-heel boots on the stairs and the dungeon door opens. Experienced and well-trained devotees are by now prostrate on the polished wooden floor, not daring to meet their beloved Mistress’s gaze. But for the newer admirers among you there will be a warm and welcoming smile. I wish to sit for a moment and put you at your ease with ‘a little chat’. For me, this is one of the most important moments of our time together. I’ll already know how long a session you’ve booked
and the type of services you are seeking. This is now your opportunity – your
only
opportunity – to elaborate on your most secret desires. The more honest you are, the more you will benefit from the hours that lie ahead. Years of experience have given me the ability to see beyond what you say, to interpret your innermost thoughts and to decide on the best shape of the session to come. There is nothing you can say that might shock me; the panoply of the kinky extremes of human sexual activity has been laid before me many times before. It may well be that I gently remind you of the few activities in which I will
not
engage but I never mind you asking. You must lay bare your soul to find out what is, or isn’t, possible.

We will also now discuss the use of your ‘safeword’ or phrase you can utter if you truly want our games to stop. Some of my more experienced followers, the ones who have earned the status of being an owned ‘slave’, delight in
not
employing a safeword; they have absolute trust in my ability to accurately judge their levels of distress and to temper my torments to suit their psychological and physical limits. For most of my clients, however, the knowledge that they can use their safeword in extremis is a reassuring backstop. There’s little fun to be had, for example, from suffering muscle cramps in the middle of a lengthy bondage game or of holding back an overwhelming need to pee while suspended in straps from the ceiling. A safeword will bring you much-needed relief – in all senses of the word – in either of those unfortunate circumstances.

Now that our initial interview is over, I alone will decide what will happen to your body and your mind over the next
hour… or two… or three. Your treatment may require a visit to my medical chambers, my suspension room, or my cells. In each of these rooms you will usually be kept in the strictest of bondage, restrained by ropes, or chains, or trapped within the confines of a leather strait jacket or one of my many rubber body-bags wrapped snugly around your body. The choice of material is yours, the severity and duration of the bondage will be mine. Depending on your desires, you may or may not be in pain; some clients crave the bite of my nipple clamps, the sting of my whip or the dull ache of excited confinement within a tight metal chastity belt. Others prefer a gentler experience, the floating feeling of being suspended from my body board as it is winched effortlessly into the air, the claustrophobic touch of a leather mask strapped tightly across the face, or the incessant throb of an electric butt-plug inserted into their rear.

Whatever your torment of choice, your role is now simplicity itself: you will obey instantly my every command and suffer or be pleasured precisely as I, and I alone, may wish. Our time for talking is over – indeed this is often a good moment for me to introduce a gag and pump it up sufficiently to ensure your silent acquiescence in our game. You are now at the mercy of my creative skills, my long experience in the dark arts of domination and my skilled and caring hands. Many players use the expression ‘power exchange’ to describe the experience and, although it is not a term I use often, it does sum up what has occurred between us. You have given me absolute power over your body and mind. I have accepted it. Let us explore together how corrupting that can be.

There are distinct differences between the way that men and women react when I share such details about what I do for a living. Men are often overcome with shyness, have no idea what to say to me and rapidly descend into a tongue-tied mumble of confusion. They may come up with the stock question for all workers in the ‘adult’ industry: ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?’ By contrast, women are usually overcome with curiosity from the start. ‘What do you actually
do
?’ they ask. ‘Do you tie people up? Spank their bottoms? Whip their backsides?’ Or, as one of my relatives once famously asked: ‘Do you
really
touch men’s willies?’ as though doing such a thing would never have occurred to her in a million years.

The answer of course is ‘all of the above’ – and much, much more – albeit with the ever-present health protection of an endless supply of medical-grade latex gloves. Within my chambers you can be prodded and probed, exposed and explored, bound and beaten. Far more important than any of the physical contact, however, is the psychological impact I have on the minds of my male and female clients. I pride myself on taking submissive men and women on private journeys to explore areas of their sexuality where fantasy rules… and pain and pleasure intermingle. I can give you an idea of what happens in my sessions with recent, real-life examples of the games that I play: firstly with one of my regular male clients, secondly with a girl who visits sporadically when she feels a need to be dominated by another woman, and lastly with a couple who regularly experience the delights of my chambers together.

CHAPTER 3

THOSE WHO PLAY TOGETHER… STAY TOGETHER

P
icking a random man to best represent my customer base proved harder than I’d imagined. Looking back on recent sessions, I realised that sexual tastes, individual perversions and everyone’s experience with BDSM activities vary so widely that it’s hard to settle on any ‘average’ client. In the end I opted for Colin, obviously a pseudonym (as are all the names of clients in this book), but a real man who worked in the legal profession, as do quite a few of my clients. What is it about working as a lawyer that predisposes one to be submissive?

Colin is intelligent, educated, good company, well-travelled and comparatively wealthy. He is in his mid-fifties, married with grown-up children, and although I have, of course, never mixed with him in normal society, I do not doubt for a moment that he is a pillar of his local community. He also adores the feel, the scent and the texture of rubber
against his naked skin. He has described his need to me on many occasions over the years: ‘I start to think about rubber, how it feels and smells and then begin to imagine what we did on the last occasion I saw you. I play each session back in my mind, sometimes masturbating to the memory of being covered in a rubber bag or a sheet and playing in my mind with the sensations I felt at that time. I don’t feel ashamed of wanting this but it is not something that I could ever share with anyone at all – and certainly not with my wife. I don’t think she’d understand but, even if she did, it’s not something I could share with her. Eventually, even though I have tried not to see you so often, I can’t resist picking up the phone and calling your number. Then the anticipation builds to fever pitch as the day of my appointment gets closer.’

Colin appears on my bookings list with great regularity, once a month or so, when his desire for latex encasement and a certain level of discipline begins to overwhelm his senses. In the immediate aftermath of a lengthy rubber session with me he is content to resume normal life and normal ‘vanilla’ sex with his partner… for a while. Then, rather like a reformed smoker requiring a nicotine fix, he feels the need to turn up once again at my door. Like many of my clients, Colin has no real idea as to
why
he enjoys his particular fetish. Examining his childhood reveals no credible clues to explain his desires, and he has no real interest in finding out more. He has the money, the freedom and the inclination to explore his deepest desires with me and feels comfortable about doing just that. His sessions tend to follow a set pattern, although I strive to introduce a new element into the scene on every visit. The insertion of a ‘wild card’ moment into the mix keeps the games
fresh and, more importantly, safeguards me against the danger of boredom. I love my job and I love the way I can enhance each person’s desires by adding in activities or fantasies pulled from my own imagination. Without that element of creativity, my role would be mechanical and repetitive; it is my sexual imagination that makes it exciting, rewarding and fun.

For a typical session, Colin will strip naked and dress in some of the vast selection of rubber clothes that hang in my dungeon’s wardrobes. Elbow-high rubber gloves, full-length rubber stockings, a tight-fitting but open-face rubber hood, a rubber jerkin, and possibly rubber chaps covering his lower limbs but leaving both his backside and genitalia exposed and available. Depending on my own mood I may leave him to dress himself, or fuss around him, dictating exactly what I want him to wear, whether he likes it or not. It’s fascinating to see his manner change as each rubber layer is applied. Before my eyes, Colin changes from a confident and slightly brash solicitor to a humble and obedient slave, desperate to obey my every instruction. There’s no need for shouting or harsh words with him, his desperation to please me binds him to my will.

By now, Colin’s hands have been secured out of the way; he’s encased in latex and enjoying every moment of the scene. But I am not called The Bondage Mistress for nothing. His rubber experience has barely just begun. I’ve already chosen a second hood to go over his head. My selection ranges from terrifying, heavy rubber bags with the smallest of air-holes, through to numerous gas masks and hoods. My current favourite is an elaborate German design in which air may only be drawn in through multiple tubes attached to a ‘smell-bag’
container strapped to Colin’s chest. The smell-bag does just what it says on the tin – scented items of any description can be placed in the bag to swamp the wearer with the chosen aroma. The contents are limited only by my imagination, although it may not surprise you to know that my worn, rubber thongs are a particular delight for many of my slaves. Depending on the design of hood which I’ve chosen I might then add a rubber pump-up gag with a breathing tube, a tightly restricting collar and even a rubber blindfold.