Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  FOREWORD

  1. WELCOME TO MY WORLD

  2. INTO THE DUNGEON

  3. THOSE WHO PLAY TOGETHER… STAY TOGETHER

  4. ‘YOUR MUMMY ISN’T REALLY YOUR MUMMY’

  5. LEFT BEHIND

  6. SEXUAL AWAKENING

  7. SEX EDUCATION

  8. LOSING MY VIRGINITY

  9. ‘A GOOD EDUCATION…’

  10. SPREADING MY WINGS

  11. FIRST LOVE

  12. GOING OFF THE RAILS

  13. LEAVING HOME

  14. DREAMING SPIRES

  15. A MISTRESS’S FIRST STEPS

  16. MY LITTLE CASE OF HORRORS

  17. ‘YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE…’

  18. KINKIER AND KINKIER

  19. A NORMAL JOB

  20. ‘EVERYTHING GOES UP… APART FROM THE PRICE OF PUSSY’

  21. ALL GIRLS TOGETHER…

  22. AN ANNUS HORRIBILIS

  23. FINDING MY FATHER

  24. SORRY GUYS… SIZE MATTERS

  25. WEST LONDON TOWERS

  26. TRUE LOVE… AT LAST

  27. A STAR OF STAGE AND SCREEN

  28. THE AMERICAN DREAM

  29. REFLECTIONS

  AFTERWORD

  Plates

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  Many families have secrets; the skeletons of long forgotten mistakes or indiscretions lurking in the cupboard for years, tucked away from the light and never to be spoken of again. In my case, my family had a secret which I only learnt through local gossip when I was nine-years-old.

  I discovered at primary school that all of the family relationships I had ever known were one big lie. The two people I knew as my mum and dad weren’t really my mum and dad at all – they were my grandparents. My real birth-mother had left home years before, leaving me behind and starting an entirely new family.

  The revelation shattered my world. It turned out that the woman I thought was my big sister was really my mum, my nephew was really my brother, my niece was my baby sister and my elderly cousins were all aunts and uncles. My paternal grandparents had not wanted to know me, and my real dad was nowhere to be seen.

  It was, in short, a confusing time all round.

  There’s a famous phrase of recent years, originally written by the poet Philip Larkin, which strikes a chord with me whenever I hear its somewhat crude sentiment: ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’

  In my case, my parents didn’t ‘fuck up’ my life, they merely confused it. They may even have done me a favour by helping mould me into a much-desired dominatrix and making me the strong, independent and successful businesswoman I like to believe I am today.

  My worry, however, is how to tell the tale of how I grew up to be a star of the adult film world, and Britain’s foremost dominatrix, without confusing any of you kind enough to read my story.

  Until they day they died, I called my grandparents ‘Mum and Dad’, and knew my birth-mother simply by her first name. But for the sake of clarity, I shall refer throughout this narrative to my maternal grandparents – the couple who became my adoptive parents – as ‘Nan’ and ‘Granddad’ and I’ve given the title ‘Mum’ back to my birth-mother. (All other names, including relatives, friends, clients, partners, have been changed to protect anonymity.)

  Confused? Quite probably! But please read on. All will, in due course, be explained.

  – Miranda

  CHAPTER 1

  WELCOME TO MY WORLD

  The lights had been dimmed in the business-class cabin of the United Airlines overnight flight from New York to London – the ‘Red-Eye’ as it is known to frequent travellers.

  Most passengers were silent and still. Only a few were properly asleep but many had huddled down under their scarlet airline-issue blankets to try and snatch a few hours of fitful rest. My travelling companion in the adjacent seat, the wealthy sales director of a British computer company, was lying prone and also covered with a blanket. Neither he nor I, however, was expecting any sleep during the flight. I was awake because I am a professional dominatrix who was being paid to tease and hurt my neighbour mercilessly that night. He was most definitely not asleep because his hands were tied behind his back and regular jolts of electricity were coursing through the metal contacts of the elasticised straps I’d wrapped tightly around his testicles and the glans of his penis.

  I watched his face carefully as we lay, barely a foot apart, with just the shared armrest of the seat between us, our heads turned towards each other, and our eyes locked together in the dim light. Charles adores me looking deep into his eyes whilst I am torturing him, and years of experience have taught me that you can judge a man or woman’s pain-endurance levels more accurately through their eyes than by any other method. The remote control device I was using, much like the one you use for your television, adjusts the strength of the battery-powered electric current rolling in waves across his genitalia. The trick is always to ensure that the discomfort levels are as high as my client can bear, without making him cry out in pain. The last thing Charles wanted was for one of the attentive stewardesses to notice anything amiss on their irregular patrols along the darkened aisle. I wouldn’t really have minded if our kinky little game had been uncovered; I am often paid to humiliate my clients in public and was born with barely an embarrassment gene in my body. My only worry on this occasion was breaking the airline’s rules against using ‘an electronic device’ in flight. They always claim, don’t they, that it might interfere with the aircraft’s navigation systems?

  Glancing at one of the three watches habitually strapped to my wrist (yes, I know it’s weird, but it’s my own, private, time-keeping fetish) I realised that our fellow passengers would soon be stirring. It was time to bring our game to an end. I touched the remote control button one last time to ensure that Charles’ penis and balls were suffering all the pain he desired. Then I made sure he was watching as I slipped a surgical-latex glove onto my hand. His excitement levels grew rapidly, his breath quickening and lips slightly parting, as my hand crept discreetly under the blanket draped across us. Fumbling in the darkness I squeezed the head of his cock, momentarily increasing the impact of the electrics and forcing the first, barely audible, moan of pain from deep in his throat. It was then but the work of a moment to rub my rubber-gloved fingers along his shaft and bring him to a shuddering sexual climax. My hand continued moving gently to give him as much afterglow pleasure as possible: a little reward for the pain he had endured. Honestly, I sometimes surprise myself with what a kind Mistress I can be! Then, still working by feel in the semi-darkness, I untied his hands, lay back in my seat and left him to clean himself up as best he could.

  My Emmanuelle-type moment of teasing and torturing a client during a busy international flight is one of the more unusual requests I’ve fulfilled in nearly two decades as a professional dominatrix. The biggest challenge came not from playing the in-flight game but in carrying the equipment through airport security. The tiny battery pack and remote control easily pass as a phone or iPod, whilst the cock and ball straps have tiny metal contacts but look like a fashionable wrist-band. Neither had aroused any interest as we passed through Heathrow and Newark airports on the outward journey.

  My aviation adventure was the climax, literally, of a three-day trip to the US as the paid companion of my London-based client, Charles, a regular visitor to my dungeon. He had planned it partly as a treat for me, but mostly because he was desperate to enliven an otherwise boring business trip that was of necessity keeping him away from his wife and his family. Staying together in a midtown Manhattan hotel, we had
explored both the city and each other’s BDSM (the acronym popularly employed as shorthand for Bondage, Domination, Sadism and Masochism) fantasies in a frantic day-and-night whirlwind of sightseeing and sexy games. It was far from being the first time that I had ‘sessioned’ with Charles, but we had never before had so much time together to tease out his deepest fantasies and fears.

  For me there was the fascination of delving deep into Charles’ mind and uncovering thoughts and desires that he had never openly admitted, even to himself. For him, there was the pleasure of my company by day and of the pain and torment I could bring him by night. The beauty of it was that Charles was not even, in a technical sense, being unfaithful to his wife. He, like all of the men who visit me, knows that I never have sex with my clients – well not with the male ones at least. A man may well receive some satisfaction at my hands, or at the mechanical hands of the intriguing variety of ‘milking’ and masturbation machines to be found in my dungeon, but sex with me is not on the menu.

  The lack of penetration is rarely an issue with my visitors. They seek an experience which, whilst sexy and ultimately exciting, is centred more in their minds than in their testicles. For a complex variety of reasons they wish to be dominated, or controlled, or tightly bound in rubber or leather. They wish to be kinky and naughty and told off by a powerful and dominant woman. They wish to live out fantasies which may have haunted them from childhood. They long to test out their limits of pain, or suffocation or secret desires of bisexuality. In short, they are seeking new experiences far removed from the ‘vanilla’ intercourse of their everyday lives.

  My Manhattan-trip friend (many of my clients do go on to become friends) exhibited one trait which I have noticed over and over again in my years of intimately studying the male of our species. Returning to my side after each business meeting he was desperate to be mistreated and humiliated in every way possible. The more successful the business element of our trip became, the more urgent was his craving to be ‘taken down a peg or two’ by me. I have long known two truths about successful men: the more intelligent they are then the greater their desire for sexual adventure, and the more successful they are, the greater their need to be dominated. It is like the Chinese concept of yin and yang – a necessary balancing of their success with an equal measure of torment and despair. It does, thankfully, create a seemingly endless demand for me and for my fellow professional dominatrices around the world.

  All in all, my American trip proved to be as successful as Charles’ impressive sales’ achievements: a substantial addition to my bank balance, some shop-till-you drop fun in New York, a couple of days sight-seeing as my client fulfilled his business obligations in the Big Apple, and an ‘interesting’ flight home. A not quite typical week in the life of Miss Miranda, aka ‘The Bondage Mistress’.

  Welcome to my world of professional domination.

  CHAPTER 2

  INTO THE DUNGEON

  I should like to say that my life consists of a succession of glamorous international flights, with a parade of charming and wealthy companions, but I’d be giving the wrong impression. True, there are enough rich men around to keep a girl happy and not short of a little luxury once in a while, but the deliciously perverted billionaires of Fifty Shades of Grey fame are somewhat short on the ground in the real world. There is, however, a constant supply of real men, real women and real couples who enjoy stretching their sexual boundaries by visiting a professional dominatrix. The publicity surrounding high-profile bondage-and-domination fans such as the former F1 motor-racing boss, Max Mosley, has combined with the success of the fictional, sadomasochistic, Fifty Shades-style erotica to stimulate interest in my previously secret world.

  Once I would have preferred to stay in the shadows. I used to lie about what my job was by pretending to be a beauty therapist. Today, I can talk more freely of the secret pleasures I bring to many people. I can run a legitimate business, pay my taxes and enjoy the fruits of my labour as a businesswoman and entrepreneur. The sexual desires of others have brought me success and job satisfaction. Even so, the majority of my sexy games are played out, not in the mile-high-club surroundings of a Boeing 757, but in the more spacious and considerably better equipped surroundings of ‘West London Towers’ – my pet name for my warm and welcoming play premises.

  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 d
rama. 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.