Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (25 page)

This was a man I had selected only after the most careful study of scores of possible candidates. I was paying for this night of casual sex and I fully intended to get my money’s worth.

‘Lie down on the bed and be quiet,’ I instructed. ‘Just do your job and stay hard while I ride you.’

Expertly slipping a condom over his rock-hard cock, I knelt over his body, lowered myself into position and gasped with pleasure as I felt for myself just how well-hung this man really was. Hiring a male escort for the evening had not been cheap but the multiple orgasms he was about to give me would make this the bargain of the century…

But first I need to explain how I had reached that point in my life.

The irony of a professional dominatrix paying a man to make love to her was not lost on me. It had taken me a long while to pluck up the courage to start searching the internet for a suitable gigolo and then even more courage to make the call. The decision came after almost three years of a totally sexless relationship. To put it bluntly: I hadn’t been fucked in ages and my frustration levels were bubbling over to bursting point.

I am, however, jumping ahead in my story once more. My pressing need for a gigolo only arose at the end of another long relationship into which I had bounced, unthinkingly, after my break-up with Frank. It was a classic mistake, an attraction on the rebound from a disastrous affair. Just a few months after my partner and my best friend ran off with each other I walked mindlessly into yet another relationship which failed almost as soon as it had started. In my own defence I can
only say that I was still trying to rebuild my life after the series of emotional disasters that had befallen me and which had, I suppose, left me alone and vulnerable. The damage with which I was coping was not just emotional. My former partner had left my house and my working dungeon in the garage in a state of disrepair. Half-finished plumbing and DIY work and no man to tackle the task. My domination business was back on track and I had enough money coming in to pay for the work, but it was hard to find a trader whom I could trust.

I was still good friends with a girl I’d worked with at the film equipment hire company. She was one of the few ‘straight’ people I had ever told about my secret sexy role and she was fascinated by my life. She came round to my house on one occasion and was bowled over by my collection of corsets and boots and glamorous wigs. She wanted to try on all my clothes and examine all of my elaborate bondage and torture equipment. She loved it all.

Now, she suggested a solution to my problem. She recommended her husband’s friend, James. He was a builder of sorts, he was out of work, and he was willing to work for whatever I could afford to pay. The first time he came to my house to assess what needed to be done I vaguely registered that he wasn’t bad looking but there was as far as my feelings went. After recent events I was numb, emotionally bruised and totally immune to the charms of any man. In fact the only men I was seeing were the clients who came to my dungeon, my chamber of delights built into the garage in the garden at the back of the house.

After years of a miserable and loveless relationship, James proved to be a breath of fresh air. Once he started work on the
house I realised that he was incredibly easy-going, laid-back and very chilled. After a long time being tied to a tosser who was precisely the opposite, always uptight and manipulative, it was a delight to meet a man with a ready smile and a good sense of humour. We got on fine but I still don’t quite know how we ended up as lovers. I hardly drank, but James was a typical builder with a thirst for a few beers at the end of the working day. With the money I paid him, he used to pop down the road and buy half a dozen beers which he would drink whilst he was working. On one Friday night we ended up sharing the beers and, somehow, got a little closer than I’d planned. By the end of the evening we had fallen into bed together. I don’t think the sex was particularly memorable but after a long period of celibacy it was good enough for me to want to carry on. Within a week or two we were together full time; it was not so much that he moved in with me, it was more that he couldn’t be bothered to go home any longer.

I was once again back in a steady relationship with a man who was happy to share my bed and who didn’t mind that I was meeting other men all day long in my guise as Mistress Miranda. James was probably the least jealous man I had ever known and, although he knew all about my work, he didn’t mind in the slightest. My particular brand of sexual excitement wasn’t, however, to his tastes. I knew that he thought the whole BDSM work was slightly strange. And I was back in the routine of kinky games with lots of men, and the occasional woman, and strictly vanilla sex with my partner at night. What was it about me? I thought. How can I be the way I am, a sex goddess and cruel mistress to so many clients, and yet keep on attracting these vanilla men? It was like some
form of curse was upon me, never to find the ideal package all in one guy.

For the first six months or maybe a year, all was fine. Then James and I gradually started arguing more and more. I don’t know, yet again, why we stayed together. There were plenty of times I determined to throw him out but never quite got around to making him go. I guess that yet again I settled for convenience and ‘better the devil you know’. Life with him had become dull and argumentative but he was always promising that he would pull himself together and that things would get better for both of us. I suppose there was also a secret fear that I might not find another man willing to accept my unusual line of work and that my self-confidence was still battered by the horrors of my last relationship. Whatever the reason, we drifted along in a state of argumentative unhappiness with neither of us willing to finally pull the plug. Somehow, years had suddenly slipped by, many of them with no sex between us at all.

It wasn’t that I was keeping score on the bedhead or anything, but the day dawned when I could no longer remember the last time that my partner and I had made love. A little thought pinned down the problem more clearly: we hadn’t had sex for a year-and-a-half. For two fit and healthy people in their early thirties, this was ridiculous! I set about persuading James that sex would be a great idea, but I was fighting an uphill battle; he was probably the most sexless man I had ever known. It took more than a month of constant nagging and even the threat that I might start to look elsewhere before James managed to fuck me again. For the
briefest of whiles all seemed to be back on track, but it was a further year-and-a-half before we tried it again. I couldn’t go on being excited each day by clients, with whom I wouldn’t want to have sex, and being frustrated all night lying next to a man who didn’t want to fuck me. A woman – as they say – has needs. Something had to give.

In the end I gave James his marching orders. There was no other man in my life, no other man on the horizon but I no longer wanted James in my bed. He moved out – but only as far as the spare room. This guy was so laid back that he couldn’t be bothered to find a new place and was determined to cling on to his place in my home. For months after we had agreed to split up he hung around like a bad smell. He even refused to tell his family and our mutual friends that we were no longer together. My family already knew, because I had told them straight that we had split up. But James kept pleading, ‘Oh no, I’ll tell my family when the time is right – later, later’, anything to put off facing the reality of our situation. I began to think that I would have to live forever with this zombie from a now-dead relationship; nothing I could do would make him lie down and die. Even while I was tackling that issue, I was also deeply aware of another seemingly intractable problem. My sex life was still non-existent. Something had to be done.

The idea of searching for a hunky male escort had been rolling around in my fantasy life for some time. I know that the idea of paying for sex shocks many women but you have to remember the type of world I inhabited. My days were spent in the dungeon where business was booming and everyone I
met was kinky and fun and fascinating in one way or another. I had started a website of my own, advertising my services as ‘The Bondage Mistress.com’ and had also begun filming some of my escapades to sell the clips online or in a specially created private site for paying members only.

As with all of my new business ventures, I started from scratch with none of the specialist knowledge I needed and learned as fast as I could. Because I had not the faintest idea how to set up and run a website, I employed a man who did. It was an inauspicious start because he was obsessed with ‘swingers’ clubs and knew little of my totally different world of BDSM. I kept finding links on my site to swinging activities and then realised that he was writing utterly inappropriate text on my site, describing me as ‘Mistress Miranda: To be Feared and Obeyed’. It was nowhere near the image I wanted to portray and nowhere near the style of BDSM play which I wanted to follow. Many dominatrices present a fearsome face to the world. They trade on being harsh and strict and cruel to their clients, demanding that men cower on the floor in front of them and screaming at their slaves to gain instant obedience. Many men like that harsher treatment and I am the first to say ‘good luck’ to them, ‘whatever turns you on’. That has never been my style, however. I prefer a more civilised training regime, strict and extreme bondage, rarely raising my voice and able to put a slave in his or her place with a naughty smile on my face. Now the guy who was creating my website was turning me into everything I had never wanted to be.

A change of web manager later and my site started bringing in new income from my films and members’ club, as well as serving as an ideal advertising forum for my session services.
Things were back on track with my business, but I was still sex-starved. Having turned to the internet to build up my career, it was only natural that I should use it again for more personal purposes – a far more personal service. I began searching the web for a suitable male escort. From the start I knew exactly what I wanted. This was not to be a romance; I didn’t want a lifelong-partner, or even some fancy form of dinner-date. I wanted to be shagged, preferably shagged hard, ideally, shagged senseless.

Finding a man to do that was not as easy as you might think. The web search turned up site after site, each packed full of pictures of hunky young men. Unfortunately, all of them were gay. Now, I have nothing whatsoever against gay men – or gay women – for that matter. Many of my days in the dungeon are spent with guys playing forced bisexual games or with women who expose their bodies to be explored, probed and tormented by me in front of the cameras. Some of my fellow dommes, many of them my closest friends and work colleagues, are happily gay or bi-sexual. It is just not
my
thing; straight men turn me on in the way a woman never could. I wanted a red-blooded, totally heterosexual man who could perform to order, with me being the centre of his undivided sexual attention. I returned to my search.

My decision to buy myself some instant sex was not an instant one. I’d deliberated about it for ages, letting the idea mature and then flipping on to different internet sites, exciting myself by picking out the pictures of my ideal candidates. It was a form of fascinating self-stimulation over which I was determined to take my time and enjoy to the full. Yet although
I was having a whale of a time, a little part of me was clinging on to normality. A tiny bit of my brain was thinking: ‘Oh God, you know, what has my life come to?’ whilst a much bigger part was thinking, ‘Wow, this is great. I’m a kid let loose in a sweetie shop, trawling through these sites.’

This was going to be my first sexual adventure in ages; it had to be with somebody exciting –and it had to be good. Eventually I found what I had been looking for: some straight escorts whose naked photographs showed that they had all of the necessary accoutrements to meet my demands. I had set the bar deliberately high and many fell at the first hurdle: too short, too thin, too blond, not muscular enough, or not handsome enough. All of these faults were grounds for instant rejection. And that, of course, was even before we came to the penises. Comparing those was a tough job, but, as they say, somebody had to do it.

Eventually, and after many hours of selfless study, I picked the lucky man. ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘this is the one. The most perfect person I can find to fuck me.’

My choice did have a lot going for him. He was younger than me, but not too young. He was a fitness model and had a perfect body; he had the looks, the height and was ridiculously handsome. The website didn’t show off his most important attribute in its fully erect state, but what could be seen was more than impressive… ‘Probably,’ I thought, ‘as much as I can handle.’ This was going to be fun. To double check that I was not deluding myself and buying a pig in a poke, I shared my choice with one of my closest female friends. She breathlessly agreed that he was an amazing specimen of a man; a definite seal of approval.

I thought, ‘Fuck it, I have had a miserable time, I want to feel sexy again, I want to feel special.’ I mean, I knew that my clients found me desirable and all the rest of it, but I just wanted that extra little buzz. So, yeah I booked him – and it was great.

We met at a hotel, and what can I say? My nerves were jangling as I waited for him to appear. I can’t even tell you how hideously nervous I was; it was just not like me at all. Here I was, the ultimate, confident dominatrix, the famous Mistress Miranda, and I was shaking like a leaf. I guess part of me thought he wouldn’t show up, part of me was scared that he would and I didn’t know quite which way I wanted it to go. It was very strange for me to be on the other side of the coin for once: selecting someone and arranging to meet them in the way that my clients must feel when they first choose me for a visit.