Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story (7 page)

I suppose my earliest grasp of the fact that there were distinct differences between the sexual equipment of boys and girls came in my first days at school. I remember at the age of six or seven playing childish games of ‘doctors and nurses’ with friends in the more secluded areas of the playground; all variations of some kind on the age-old children’s curiosity of ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’. It was all very innocent, and all a far cry from the sort of grown-up doctors and nurses games I play with my clients these days. Ironically, given the fact that I now spend much of my time with people stripping their clothes off in front of me, as a child I was always the one who hung back and never, never, volunteered for the ‘I’ll show you mine’ part of the equation. I was far too shy and retiring to have even considered pulling my pants
down. I was far more the type who would stand quietly at the back and observe.

When I was about eight years old there was one girl who had older brothers and sisters and who was, for a while, thought to be the fount of all knowledge about sex. Her brothers had clearly gone out of their way to share all of the intricate details of human sexual reproduction. ‘You have to have two boys and one girl and they put the girl on their shoulders and shake her around a lot and this green stuff comes out and you have a baby,’ she explained one day to a group of us, all eager to learn of the hidden delights of romantic love. Even at that age I knew that this explanation differed somewhat from the accepted wisdom of our playground, but looking around at the other girls I could see that several of them were worrying that her version might just be the correct one.

It was at the sort of childish age where you see people kissing on television and immediately start to cringe; you are curious but it all seems a bit revolting to contemplate. I think I knew enough to find the whole idea of the vigorous shoulder-shaking rather amusing, but none of what I knew had ever been verified by a teacher or any other adult. I did talk about what the girl had said with my friend, Jennifer, and she agreed with me that it was complete nonsense. She told me that she talked about sex often with her parents and was surprised that I had never asked my mummy about it. ‘You should ask her where babies come from,’ she said. The thought of doing that was so alien to me that I never even contemplated following her advice. It was not until several years later, long after I had lost my virginity, that I ever had
such a conversation with my grandmother. Purely being mischievous, and already knowing the answer, I posed the classic question: ‘Mum, where do babies come from?’

‘Well, it’s the husband planting a seed… and then it grows…’ was the hesitant reply.

‘Like in a cabbage patch,’ I ventured, trying desperately not to laugh.

‘No, no, not really like that. I’m sure they will tell you all about it at school soon.’

I was fast approaching my teens, knowing most of the mechanics of sex but nothing of the emotional turmoil it might bring. With our lack of communication about the subject, my grandmother had never even mentioned the concept of periods to me, although I knew that I would one day start them because there were already girls in my class at Middle School who were having them. Then my best friend Jennifer came on with her periods before me and, in probably more detail than I might have wanted, insisted on telling me all about it.

My own periods started when I was 12, in the holidays between leaving Middle School and starting at High School. I remember I was wearing blue fishnet tights under a denim skirt and had been shopping with my grandmother. When I got home I discovered I was bleeding but, of course, I had no pad or tampons to use. I talked to my grandmother who had nothing for me either. ‘Isn’t that odd,’ she said, ‘I was thinking today when we were out that I should have bought something for you because you would be due around this sort of age, but I didn’t actually get anything at all.’ That was not actually much help to me at the time but my ever-resourceful grandmother 
made up a kind of pad out of cotton wool and gauze and then bought me proper pads after that.

And so I celebrated my thirteenth birthday knowing little more than I had picked up in playground gossip. I was vaguely interested in boys and I think I must, by then, have discovered masturbation. It was a secret pleasure to be enjoyed under the bedclothes at night and increasingly often in the morning before dragging myself out of bed to face another day at school. My day-to-day life, however, was still largely devoted to the twin pursuits of coping with becoming a teenager and with sport at school.

Unfortunately for my moral welfare, the same could never have been said about my best friend Jennifer. Although still a virgin, Jennifer was crazy about sex and boys, any boy, of any shape or size or age. Now, don’t get me wrong, I too was curious about boys but just not on the same industrial scale as Jennifer. I used to spend a lot of my time at her home because both her parents worked and we would often have the run of the house before they got back in the evening. She could always get into her parents’ bedroom and I was soon introduced to her father’s collection of soft-porn girlie magazines. More intrusively still, Jennifer would delight in peeking through her mother’s wardrobe and showing me her ‘kinky underwear’. We would sometimes dress up in them and show off in front of the bedroom mirror. They were all rather innocent, Anne Summers-type outfits rather than seriously kinky fetish wear but it seemed terribly naughty at the time. It was certainly hard to imagine my much older ‘mother’ buying anything remotely like that.

It was sometimes hard to get Jennifer to think or talk about
anything else other than boys and so there was certain inevitability about what was to happen next. My friend’s voracious appetite for meeting men, and my naïve willingness to follow, led us both into danger one day.

We regularly played a game after school in which we would head for the local shops and straightaway hitch up our school uniform skirts shorter and shorter. The game was to see how many car drivers would beep their horns and how many men might try to chat us up on the way. I loved the attention and was every bit as keen as Jennifer, but we were both about to learn a valuable lesson: that you can take such teasing too far. On one sunny afternoon, we were walking to the local shops as usual and happily collecting our requisite quota of ‘beeps’ from the passing cars. Suddenly one vehicle pulled into the side of the road right in front of us. A young Asian guy got out and stood smiling in front of us. I could see a couple of older men in the back of the car.

Smiling and friendly, this young Asian lad came out with a line which, even then to our 13-year-old ears, sounded as corny as hell.

‘My dog’s just had some really cute puppies,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come and have a look at them?’

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘Oh come on. We only live up the road. Where are you two from? Come on and have a look, you’ll love them.’

The more both of us said we weren’t interested, the more persistent he became. He was chatting, chatting, chatting but I ended up just repeating: ‘No, no I’m not interested.’ While Jennifer finally said, ‘No I’m not going to see them, I’ve got puppies at home,’ and took a step back.

‘Come on Jennifer,’ I said, ‘let’s go.’

With no warning he suddenly grabbed me around the middle and tried to drag me to the car. I was too shocked to scream but I was wriggling and fighting like mad. He might have succeeded in forcing me in through the open door but then Jennifer grabbed me and started pulling me away. He got hold of Jennifer too but by then I had hold of the fence and nothing was going to make me let go. Even at that age I was strong and wiry from all the sports I played at school, and I was hanging on for dear life.

We were both screaming, ‘Get off… get off us’ and the guys still sitting in the car were shouting ‘Come on, come on, get her in quick’. It was total chaos and getting noisier by the second but, amazingly, no other cars or pedestrians stopped to come to our aid. In the end our attacker realised that his friends were not going to help and, without them, he wasn’t going to win. He swore wildly at me, released his grip and jumped into the car as it sped off.

It had been the closest of calls, we were both shaking with the shock but thankfully we were both unharmed. We had not walked far from our school gates and there was a payphone right there so we decided to call the police. We had the car registration number and knew exactly what the guys had looked like, especially the younger one who had been the most dangerous. It was the one and only time that I have had to dial 999, and it was a complete waste of time: nobody answered the emergency call. Hardly able to believe it, I dialled the operator and blurted out that I needed to speak to the police. There was a short pause and then the operator was apologising profusely: ‘I’m sorry caller; I just cannot get a reply from the police
service.’ In the confusion that followed, the operator offered to take down our details: ‘I’ll get someone to contact you as soon as I can.’ The last thing that Jennifer and I wanted, however, was to have the police turning up on our doorsteps: my parents would never have let us out again! I instantly hung up the phone and we hurried back home. To this day I regret that my emergency call was not answered. That young guy had been determined to get us into that car, his older friends had been anxious to get their hands on us, and I just hope that nothing ever happened to other women because they were not caught that day. The attempted abduction should have been salutary lesson to Jennifer and me but at the age of 13 we all believe we are untouchable and immortal.

And at 13, I was only really interested in the opposite sex in a ‘I ought to get a boyfriend’ sort of way but my friend’s obsession with sex – and my childish willingness to go along with her – were soon to cost us both our virginity.

CHAPTER 8

LOSING MY VIRGINITY

O
n one of the many afternoons when she spurned getting the bus in order to walk home from school, Jennifer had met a man more than twice her age whom she felt was a promising candidate to take her unwanted virginity. She told me all about him the following morning at school: ‘Oh Miranda, he’s great. He’s called Ron, he’s 26 and he wants to see me again – and he’s got a friend, and he really wants to meet you too.’ The age of Jennifer’s latest conquest might perhaps have set alarm bells ringing in my mind but I was well-used to her chatting up every man – in fact
any
man – with whom she came into contact. It was after all the whole purpose of our regular strolls through West London with our school skirts hitched high on our thighs. ‘Oh come on Miranda, it’ll be fun; he’s good-looking and his friend really wants to see you and you have to come with me.’

Despite some initial reservations I agreed, as I always did, to go along with Jennifer’s plan. We set off after classes to meet her new man and his ‘friend’ who had clearly been earmarked for me. Although Jennifer was the one who always did all of the talking, we both knew that I was the one to whom most of the men were attracted. It was therefore nothing out of the ordinary for Jennifer’s guy, Ron, to start chatting me up as soon as we met. It did not upset Jennifer at all; she was equally happy getting to know his friend and I was pleasantly surprised by Ron’s good looks.

It was a rainy afternoon when we all met outside Ron’s parents’ house, a mile or two from my school. It seemed only natural to accept the boys’ invitation to ‘come into the garage to get out of the rain’. What was perhaps not quite so natural was that two mattresses had been laid out on the garage floor with a few blankets to transform them into useable, if temporary, beds. There was, as you will already have guessed, a certain inevitability about what was to happen over the next half-hour. Ron was kissing me and his friend was kissing Jennifer and things just rolled along a little bit too quickly for me to think. I lay down on the bed with Ron and didn’t really resist when he started stroking my body. Boys had touched me before but not quite in the urgent and intimate way he was touching me now. I can’t pretend that I was enthralled by what was happening but I went along with it willingly enough. It all just sort of happened, really.

Looking back on the events of that afternoon, it is obvious that those two 26-year-olds had planned all along to seduce us with the minimum of fuss and effort. Being half their age, both virgins and still at school we must have been the easiest of
targets. The only thing that might have given me pause for thought was if they had not used ‘protection’. The story of my own birth-mother’s pregnancy from her first sexual encounter was always in my mind. But Ron and his friend had each come prepared with condoms and that was never an issue.

The precise details of this distinctly unromantic tryst are now a little hazy. The lights were on in the garage but Jennifer and I were both lying under blankets. I was still wearing most of my school uniform and worried that it was getting damp and creased. I certainly remember being self-conscious about my body as Ron fumbled his way inside my clothes while continuing to smother me with kisses. I don’t think he even undressed me completely, just unbuttoning my white school blouse, lifting my skirt up and pulling off my pants.

There was the briefest of pauses in his attentions as he slipped a condom on under the blanket and I was aware that Jennifer was lying a few feet away. Her guy was by now on top of her and she was making all of the correct ‘Ooh-ah… I am
really
enjoying this’ sort of noises. A few moments later I was conscious of a tight, painful sensation as Ron entered me and started rocking backwards and forwards. I think I made a few ‘Ooh ah’ noises as well, although the truth is that I was thinking: ‘Oh God, this isn’t really very nice at all. It’s bloody uncomfortable. If this is what it is all about, I am not interested anymore.’ In common, I believe, with many women’s own experiences, the most charitable thing I can say about my first fuck was that it didn’t last very long. Ron seemed to come very quickly.