Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (27 page)

Many of my double-domme sessions provide an added dose of public humiliation for the most fortunate of my slaves. They are filmed for far wider exposure, both on my own websites and on various international clip-sales sites that spread my images around the world. I take a lot of care in writing and planning my film scripts to create a realistic, sexy and entertaining scenario that best shows off my own domination skills, and those of the other dommes.

The first filming session I did with another Mistress, many
years ago now, was a memorable day. I had taken my film crew to the London dungeon of ‘Mistress Strap-on’ who, as her name would suggest, specialised in some of the most extreme forms of anal play for her enthusiastic submissives. Waiting for us both in the dungeon, already naked and in bondage, was one of her most loyal slaves. The behind-the-scenes atmosphere on a film set is always friendly and I introduced myself to the tightly bound slave and briefly discussed the scenes we were about to produce. He was a charming man, urbane, cultured and very much looking forward to the experience. I leaned over him, chatting amicably for some minutes, as the crew busied themselves arranging camera-angles and lights; then we all switched instantly from friendly to professional. Within moments my chatty demeanour had vanished, to be replaced by my sternest voice and the filthiest insults I could muster as I castigated the wretch for some imagined misdemeanour and left him in no doubt as to what his punishment would be.

Mistress Strap-on set about living up to her name by penetrating the business end of his body with a massive rubber dildo attached to a leather harness around her waist. In the meantime I was pinching, pulling and stretching his nipples to make him moan for the camera. It was slightly surreal, tormenting this man with whom, just a minute or two earlier, I’d been passing the time of day, but that’s entertainment for you. He couldn’t speak to me any longer anyway because of the gag pumped up tightly between his lips. We all quickly forgot that the camera was there and had a session which we all enjoyed. Well, actually, I’m not quite so sure about our victim. In the middle of the session, Mistress Strap-on told me
that her slave had a particular kink which she loved to indulge. ‘He likes me to slowly insert a large dildo deep into his rear,’ she said, ‘and then wants me to pull it out again – as quickly as I can – like
this
.’ Since she was demonstrating her technique whilst she was explaining it, her last few words were almost drowned out by an agonising scream bursting out from underneath her tied-up slave’s gag. ‘Oh, oops,’ she announced, with a shocked look on her face. ‘I’ve got the wrong slave; this one doesn’t like that at all.’

Another Mistress and I did slightly less harm to our slaves on another recent double-domme shoot in Birmingham. I was working with one of my favourite people, the delightful Mistress Rouge, and we filmed for a whole afternoon on a purpose-designed film set which included an entire schoolroom, complete with desks, blackboards and even a separate headmaster’s office to deal with the most unruly pupils. Having been at the receiving end of a few telling-offs from teachers in my time, it was a delight to turn the tables and dish out the punishments to a select group of submissive pupils. We’d dressed up a couple of the ‘boys’ as schoolgirls, complete with pigtail wigs and it was good to see how everybody went along with the filmed role-play, competing to be the naughtiest and therefore the first to be sent the headmistress’s office for a severe caning. At the front of the class, perched slightly inelegantly on a desk, sat Mistress Rouge and I. I thought we looked the part with our long schoolteacher’s gowns and tight black skirts; although perhaps we shouldn’t have shown the boys and girls quite so much of our sheer-stocking-clad legs. It was almost as though we meant to tease them!

CHAPTER 26

TRUE LOVE… AT LAST

M
y experience of hiring a male escort and the fun of sublime sex with him, made me realise how much I was missing real passion in my life.

I’ve no doubt that I excited my paid-for handsome young partner that night in the hotel bedroom – and the naughtiness of the situation and his hunky body certainly excited me. Despite my earlier doubts, I didn’t have the slightest regret about what I’d chosen to do in order to relieve my sexual frustration. In fact, I had to give myself a serious talking-to in order to resist the temptation to do it all over again a few days later. I can be a greedy girl when the mood takes me.

Nevertheless, there’s a world of difference between the forced passion of commercial sex and the heart-warming satisfaction that comes from making love to a much-desired,
real-life partner. It is a difference I’m aware of in my day-to-day working life, fulfilling the BDSM fantasies of men, women and couples who are all seeking a form of sexual excitement that they cannot easily find elsewhere. Men profess to love me all of the time. In the throes of sexual excitement, when I have stretched and tormented and bullied their bodies into climactic submission, their emotions can run away with their minds and they’ll gasp out their adoration for me. ‘I love you Mistress; thank you Mistress; thank you… please hurt me again’ are phrases I hear all the time. The trick is for neither them, nor me, to take it too seriously. I call it ‘mind-fucking’ my clients, leading them by the hand into what some term ‘sub-space’, a slightly altered consciousness where nothing matters for that moment other than the pleasure and excitement flooding their system. That’s when they will love me… for a while. Once their lust has been satiated and their minds recover then they want to get off home to normal life and to their much-loved wives and families.

There are a few rare exceptions to the rule: the one or two men who do fall genuinely, head-over-heels in love with me and become addicted to my company, however much I hurt or mis-treat them. To be fair, I do always try to warn them when I recognise the early symptoms of Miranda-addiction.

‘Be careful slave, you’re going to get hurt,’ I tell them. ‘Keep on seeing me and I’ll fuck your mind to the point where you won’t be able to stop. Are you sure you want to do this?’

On the rarest of occasions I will have to nip the addiction in the bud and tell a particularly obsessed fan that my door is no longer open to his visits but, if they’re not too much of a nuisance about it, then I don’t mind men loving me. They’re
the only ones in danger: loving me can seriously damage your bank balance.

One client who I’ve known for well over a decade once asked me: ‘What’s it like to be loved by everybody you meet?’

He saw the look of surprise on my face and explained: ‘Don’t you understand, you are our ultimate fantasy woman because we all want to be the one who is under your guidance 24/7; in our fantasy world we all want to be the one you are with.’

I had never really thought about that to be honest. I suppose not many people spend their working day being an adored goddess, which is exactly the term he uses for me; a slightly strange thought, but not at all unpleasant. This particular slave delights in telling people that I’m his religion. In that box on government census form that demands to know your religious affiliations he writes ‘Mirandite’. He is the founder, and one of very few members, of the Mirandite cult; he worships at my feet and it’s no exaggeration to say that his entire life revolves around me. Despite that, I am grounded in reality; I truly am! I know that I’m just like everybody else but that I do attract men who are seeking a woman to put on a pedestal and worship. There is a fetish-magazine publisher I know who complains that some of the Mistresses he deals with get false ideas about their own status in life.

‘Honestly, Miranda, some of them think their shit doesn’t stink,’ he jokes. ‘At least you never fall for your own hype.’

With all that in mind, my own flirtation with paid-for fun and games simply made me think that it was about time that I sorted out my own, unimpressive, love-life once and for all. As you’ll have realised by now, my track record with men
wasn’t great. I was into my thirties with two disastrous and lengthy relationships behind me; both of them with total losers. Although I’d have been too modest to say it at the time, it was clear that neither man had been remotely as intelligent as me and neither had been worldly-wise or sophisticated enough to open my eyes to all the cultural and intellectual treats that London had to offer. Even more worrying, neither of them had ever been great shakes between the sheets and each had soon lost all desire to keep me sexually satisfied. I’d devoted myself to building up my business with barely an evening off in years and both of my partners had been perfect couch potatoes. I had always wanted to live life more fully. I wanted to go into town for fun nights-out, I wanted to go out for meals and I wanted to travel. My former partners hadn’t been interested in that at all. My last boyfriend had particularly firm views on the subject: ‘If the telly’s on and there’s beer in the fridge, why would I want to go out?’ He was fat and lazy and rejected any suggestion that London might be interesting: ‘Why do I need to go into London? I don’t want to go into London.’

Although I criticise the guys, I am aware that I’m not entirely blameless here. People have asked me why I didn’t go out and do things with girlfriends. Why didn’t I go out on my own to experience all that our capital city has to offer? The answer is that sometimes it was hard to give up the money. When the choice is a night out in town on your own, or earning £1000 with a client, I too often came down on the side of the cash.
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa
. The truth is that I had nobody but myself to blame. I’d been content to lazily slip into each train-wreck of a relationship simply because that
was easier than finding a suitable man. What on earth had I been thinking of? I determined that the next guy would be different. If I could recruit the perfect escort with a little effort and internet research, then surely I could find my perfect, long-term partner in just the same way?

Several weeks went by before I put my dating plan into action. Then one day I thought, ‘Right,
now
is the time for me to find someone new.’ But I was facing the problem that faces a lot of single women every day. Where the hell do you go looking for a man? I hardly drank at the time and the only place you would ever find me, if I wasn’t at work, was in training in the gym. Even then, although I was always trying to keep my body in shape for work, that would only be for an hour each evening. It’s also not the best meeting place. So where do you meet people? I honestly don’t know. So I thought, ‘Bugger it; I’m going to start looking on the internet.’ That, of course, created a new dilemma. If I logged-on to straight internet dating sites, and was in any way honest about myself, then ‘normal’ men were going to think I was some kind of nutter. If on the other hand I used fetish sites and mentioned what my job was, then I’d be inundated with wanna-be slaves. I didn’t quite know what to do.

The other worry was that my former boyfriend was still sleeping downstairs in my house. I think he had a vague hope that if he stuck around for long enough then we might get back together again. Now I told him in the clearest possible terms: ‘I’m looking for another man, we’re finished, it’s all over, this is an ex-relationship. You have to go, right now. It’s my house and you have to leave.’ At long last he finally took
my subtle hints and left. The way was clear for finding the perfect replacement. I joined a website called Alt.com which described itself as being for the BDSM alternative community and which had a dating section allowing you to put up messages seeking new friendships. I didn’t mention that I was a professional dominatrix, but I did make it clear that I was very much a dominant woman, hoping to meet a submissive man.

After a few false starts, one man started writing regularly. Tony’s emails were flirty and fun and he seemed to be an intelligent guy. When I saw his picture I realised he was also good-looking and had a great body. Although I was being ultra-cautious, I did slowly grow more and more interested. I began to look forward to his messages each day. We wrote to each other a lot, discussing the fetishes which had drawn us to this alternative website in the first place. I was careful to play it cool, really cool, and so after my original contact I let him do all of the chasing. He would email or text a message and I would reply – but I was never the one who instigated the next call. Soon we were sending emails backwards and forwards: he was discussing what he liked and we were creating various fantasy scenes and writing stories to titillate each other. I remember once I sent him a text message describing how I was sitting at my desk and wishing that he was kneeling on the floor in front of me. I went on to tell him precisely how I was going to bury his head between my legs and use his tongue for my pleasure. Tony’s heartfelt reply made me giggle: ‘I am standing in Waterstones with a hard-on. NOT good.’ Actually, after months of living like a nun, that sounded pretty good to me.

This was an experience I had never had before. It may have been courtship by emails and texts, rather than face-to-face contact, but for the first time in my life I was actually being wooed by a man. Previously, I’d always jumped into relationships as a matter of convenience. I’d never made men work hard to catch me; I’d fallen into their laps with little effort on their part. Now, I had a man trying hard to impress me; a man who really wanted to be with me. I can’t even remember at what stage of our internet friendship I told Tony I was a professional dominatrix but I do remember that it didn’t worry him at all. My new friend was open and honest with me and told me that he didn’t have much experience. He said that he’d dabbled in BDSM games with a former lover but hadn’t explored it as deeply as he wished. There were a lot of specific things he wanted to try. Between us we would craft elaborate scenarios and fantasies which I knew were exciting him. I was enjoying myself immensely as the emails flew back and forth, with each of us teasing the other about what would one day happen between us. By now I was sure that I wanted to meet him in person but there was to be yet a further delay. I’d recently had surgery on my knee and I thought, ‘I can’t arrange a meeting with this really fit guy, and then turn up hobbling around on a bad knee. I’ve got to be patient and wait.’