We're going to turn this car around and NOBODY will be going!

I hit a wall immediately after Christmas. I'd even been prowling after my clients in order to have bookings lined up to pay for our post Christmas holiday. I'd sent a plethora of text messages and I'd wooed them via email. Then, I had a monumental argument with my husband that was one of those that just went on for so long, I forgot my initial premise. Was our problem money? Was my problem that my insides lurched at the thought of conducting another session? The answer was 'yes'. So, we made up and I quit my job.

Obviously, it was on the cards in any case. But, I wasn't planning to do it in such a poorly planned fashion. Perhaps it was ill advised. We are now broke. But, I changed my number and everything. It is done.

I now have less of a need to be so secretive about who I am. So, I thought it timely to tell the whole sordid tale. Perhaps it will be of interest to someone out there. But, at least it will no longer just be swimming about inside little old me.

My husband is full of woe. I had to turn aside several sessions in the week due to his suspected swine flu suffering. We live where I play - weird, huh? - and I couldn't have the sounds of his fitful moaning - because he is ever so dramatic about his suffering - interfering with the sounds of my chastising and handing out beltings. We all have to have official 'this is just too weird' boundaries, after all.

I suggested that he not smoke that skunk and drink that brandy last night. I said, 'give yourself time to heal, baby'. But no, he consumed, egged on by moronic friends and now he suffers. I thought he was going to cry when I shambled into the bedroom earlier. But, it was a mere bout of pillow retching. Skunk is the devil's work. What ever happened to the fun loving, giggling high? Why must we be poleaxed and then suffer a hangover? What kind of poison smoke is this?

I am responding to your message after receiving repeated phone calls from you. I tend to find repetitive calls disconcerting, particularly so when the caller hangs up in my ear. In these instances, I will generally refuse sessions. I'm sure you can appreciate my position and my need to be strict with problem callers. I suggest further discussion to be done via email.


dear mistress, thank you for your reply i was thrilled about your skill with the cane ,you sound the right sort of mistress that i am looking for .its true to say after a discussion the best part beggins usually on the bare with a hand spanking and then paddles on the bare.the best part of a session and the most important is the canning itself ,which can be a very beautiful thing if done very hard and accurate .your enjoyment is paramount in all this ,if its really hurting me it should bring great joy to you i hope the best mistresses can really delive in the touch toes position accurately and i hope will really hurt properly .the best experiences are real ones .to be fair to you i like to wear the right pants for a canning but some mistresses enjoy it on the bare bum .so i have to consider you there .we would have a discussion ist i hope ,it is a very private and special thing for both of us afterall .what would your fee be !then it only remains for me to contact you when i can do it .

-As you can see, I am ever the diplomat.

Mistress
I was unable to complete the task you set me. I left your domaine and walked uncomfortably in the rain to the tube. I felt like James Dean in the poster. It was as though your cruelty had drained every ounce of energy from me.

But I was happy that you had tried to extend the limits of my orifices and assaulted my senses of sight, touch, smell and taste.

I looked at the ordinary late night shoppers carrying their retail comforts with disdain. We who know and need strong sensations are the truly extraordinary. I know I will need those sensations again.

-My reply was:
I am disappointed that you failed in your task. However, I am pleased that my efforts to extend your experience and push your boundaries weren't wasted.

I considered your role as a 'slave' to be one where it was necessary for unexpected and perhaps unwelcome discomforts to be suffered in order for you to appreciate the experience you had requested. Your comments about laying your own towels for the golden shower prompted this...

In any case, I look forward to your next visit.

-His discomfort was due to the tobasco carefully painted on his genitals.

'Well, if you're a kind hearted soul, you'll come back with the rest of the money.' Meaning: If you're a shit, you won't. It is VERY rare occasion that all of the required tribute won't be produced. But, there's no use getting wound up about it, just take what they have and do what you will. It's always the young ones who are so desperate to hold onto their pride who refuse to just let go and enjoy the scene. Suspend your disbelief, mate, holding onto it is ruining your fun. I feel like a haggard old woman at these times, fag hanging out of my mouth, dispensing world weary advice. Such as: eeeeeyyyyy, loosen up, stupid. I like the middle aged men who are beyond clinging to their self esteem whilst sexually charged. You can convince them to do anything. Well, almost anything...After so many years at it, I have to keep myself entertained somehow. Even if this means having them on their hands and knees, lapping up Tabasco laden cat food...or supping from a bottle of my urine in a cafe. The table next to us reacted in a fairly horrified fashion that time.

It should be noted that although public humiliation scenes are all well and good, it's also embarrassing for ME to be dressing down some obese man, whose beard somewhat detracts from his heels and pearls. People will turn and stare at me, the one who's shouting and making a fuss, not the loser I'm shouting at. So, don't react with surprise if I hide across the road while making demands over the phone. in this instance, I only have to risk looking a bit crazy, laughing manically while hiding around a corner.

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I'm still not taking calls. I think my mobile could be trying harder...My, erm, 'playroom' is looking more like a tasteful reception room and the other day I cleaned the bathroom for the first time in a week. This is all very unusual. Over my many years of conducting sessions in various 'dungeons' (every cliche you imagine is true), I have compiled a list of pet hates. Shall I share them with you? Sure thing. (No doubt they will seem a bit weird. In this industry, reason doesn't stand a chance.)

Number 1 - Wipe clean gymnasium inspired furniture. Who ever decided that this was the decor of choice? It's black metal frames, covered with wipe clean leather. Practical, yes. But, also hideous. I once sessioned somewhere renowned in New York. Their dungeon was actually like a dungeon. The floor was concrete with puddles of water in the corner. The two pieces of furniture in the room were both broken. This establishment had an equipment storeroom that one had to raid in preparation for dealing with the client. There was little in there other than a couple of broken canes, a few bits of rope and a comedy rubber fist. (I didn't have any toys with me as the MAN could have stopped, searched and confined me at the airport in NY, before sending me back here. This happened to a couple of friends of mine. They were shackled hand to foot and forced to piss in the corner for 24 hours. Some would find this kinky, not me.) So, I went into session armed with some broken rope and the words: Use your imagination. The management seemed to think the state of the place was normal. I'm getting off my point: fetish furniture is ugly.

Number 2 - Cleaning products on display. You shouldn't need to make it obvious that you hose down everything the client even looked sideways at. This should be a given. Cleaning products aren't sexy. Even those clients/slaves who want to clean aren't enamoured with the products themselves. It's more about me telling them to get their head down my toilet. (Hence my endless concern about cleanliness in the bathroom).

Number 3 - Dirty dungeons. It's hard to fathom, but most dungeons with cleaning products on display are filthy. This is generally the case where one rents by the hour. When sessions are booked back to back, it just becomes ridiculous. All those wipe down surfaces are covered with slime. I once shared a space with possibly the dirtiest Mistress in the universe. But, this was because she was both drunk and didn't give a shit.

Number 4 - Mistresses out Mistressing each other. It's not a competition. But, it's hilarious to watch women attempting to out dominate each other in front of some guy who doesn't understand - or care - about what's going on.

Number 5 - A bucket of greasy strap-ons in the corner. I used to manage BDSM establishments that were required by law to run like brothels. (How abhorrent and uncivilised, I know). One drug addled lunatic sessioned and buggered off home, leaving a BUCKET full of offending articles behind. As manager, I was responsible for them. Later, another Mistress was sessioning in the room and half way through, realised her slave was lying on a puddle of goo in the form of underpants. It was very dark in there. I would say, this particular place rivaled the one in New York for crapness. Although, at least there was equipment in the room.

BDSM has it's toys and some players become obsessed with gadgets. I'm more into appropriating things. It does also bother me that the latest and greatest toys are merely invented for naked profiteering, while being marketed as totally necessary...It's like any other industry. I always claim that it's amazing what you can do with a few bits of string, some dental floss and a few clothes pegs.

More waffling later. I have eight years of stories as well as other people's anecdotes to cover. So, I expect to be writing for a while. I've been interviewed many times, appeared in documentaries and even had one made just about me...During this, I was keeping a 'work diary', but then I quit the biz for a while and turfed it all away. All I'm saying is that I've got a lot to say.

So, I have been ignoring my phone for three days. It isn't an irretrievable breakdown of our relationship. It bleats at me from time to time and I do my best to reassure it. I am taking an inordinate amount of glee in purposefully not responding to any demand and even (shock, horror) leaving the mobile in the other room from time to time. Next, I'll be switching it off! The UNTHINKABLE. It is a terrible thing, mobile dependency. I always feel an immense relief when abroad...to be so free. I'm positive that I'm not the only one who feels this way.

I took the brief chance today's fine weather offered me and cycled across town. It was a little hairy at times. I'm one of those cyclists everyone hates. I ride an old, crappy bike, in the most inappropriate footwear, full tilt, with my head phones in, without any lights. I get in arguments with bus drivers and swear loudly at pedestrians. But, it's invigorating. I'm not from London originally - who is? - and only really got a handle on the layout of the city when I started cycling.

I'm keeping my identity a secret for good reason. I haven't retired yet. I swear, this time, it will be for real. I'll be murdering my alter ego and it's going to be a blood bath. Although, I'm certainly young enough to pick it up again in a few years' time, I'd like to think that I'll move onto something else interesting enough that I won't want to. So, there you have it. It's not about money, it's about interest and infamy. At the moment, I'm in a waiting room. In three months' time, I'll be home free. We all hope.

Oh yes, the concept is that this is the blog where I express my genuine thoughts regarding life and work...I have another blog/diary attached to my site which is for promotional purposes. Hence the need to get a bit of whining off my chest. My phone started ringing again (like a phone possessed) on Friday. It is ever the way of things. Unfortunately, by then I was sick and tired of the whole thing. (It had been silent for three days, I think). Hence the time off. I'll stop being slovenly once my enthusiasm returns. Give it a few days.

There is a dominatrix who has invaded London with a desire to compartmentalize and rate the Mistresses in this town. I keep receiving group emails from her. Initially, I had the impression that her plans were to have some sort of business forum, where Mistresses could bitch openly about their clientele, in particular their 'time wasters'. I'm not really concerned by these 'time wasters'. Of course, there are loads of jerks out there who want to call up and hiss various obscenities down the phone. But, I tend to be fairly unflappable as I've heard it all before. (If I start to get pissed off, I just don't answer calls.) If one has a good system in place regarding the confirmation of bookings - well there's no such thing as time wasters. Anyway, apparently the dream isn't this magic forum of bitching, but a way to rate Mistresses, taking into account their skills and quality of premises. The whole concept makes my stomach turn. All hyperbole aside, this woman is obviously a succubus. Ok, she's not. But, who is going to be judging the quality of Mistresses and what kind of grading system is going to be applied to their premises? For instance: no rubber hood, minus one point. Extraordinary collection of Mistress excrement samples stored under the stairs, plus five points. Not enough clean towels, minus two points. Black painted walls and a room full of bondage furniture that looks suspiciously like gym equipment, plus twenty points. It's not like she's handing out Michelin stars, now is it?

Dungeons. I hate them. Who ever decided that this was sexy? It's just wipe clean gone mad.

I decided, in the end, to take an official week off. This means I leave a message on my voice mail, alerting everyone to the fact that I've disappeared down a rabbit hole. Then, I hide in bed for a week, being served biscuits by my husband. It feels good, if poverty stricken.

I am exceedingly bored by the weather and my tedious job. It's quiet out there. During a quiet week, only the regular odd balls call. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine in the same profession declared that one mustn't grumble about the odd balls. You really know you're in trouble when even they stop calling. Well, we've finally descended into that pit. Oh well, one mustn't stagger around in the mire railing at the elements, like some perverted King Lear. Let's suck it up and write a novel. I must just cast aside my fears of impending poverty. I'm sure we're all in the same boat (myself and the other Mistresses, that is. Although, I know a few and they're cool, there seems to be a frightening percentage of replicants in the boat with me these days. I thought that the lack of human empathy was supposed to be the realm of the call girl).

There's a rather disconcerting shift these days into the field of humiliation. It's proving to be a popular request. An excellent example of this 'shift' occurred last week. A client of mine who has been visiting with me for two years or so, originally visited predominantly for corporal punishment and golden showers. Last week, we had progressed to him licking out my toilet bowl dressed in mesh lingerie and a long blonde wig. While he was parading around my play room, perfoming a stip tease, I sat back in wonderment at what was happening with the world. Perhaps I should explain further. This is a middle aged English businessman who arrives in cufflinks. Before you know it, he's semi naked and caressing himself to the tune of Portishead while I proclaim 'that's right, tweek those nipples. Show me what a slut you are!' He is most enthusiastic.

Why is it considered humiliation to be dressed in womens' pants? And why does he have to be a 'slut' called Samantha while doing so? When did he decide that being hit repeatedly with a stick wasn't enough? Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions.

By the way, I've been doing this for over seven years. Maybe even eight years.

The first day

Friday, November 6th

I've written journals before. I found the problem with having a journal that no one will ever read is that I tended to just cough up my thoughts and feelings and then just finger paint in a self indulgent fashion. Figuratively, of course. Perhaps, if there's a potential audience, I'll write something of interest. Although, it'll no doubt be censored.

So here we go. I am a writer, though unpublished. How lame. I am good at writing, so why am I unpublished? The procrastination gene is strong in this one. But, I hear that practice makes perfect. I am also a professional dominatrix. While I attempt not to allow this to consume me, it is inevitable that what you do for a living dictates your life. Oh, the things that these eyes have seen. I don't have sex for money and I'm the only person who manages my diary. I told some client/slave the other day 'as a dominatrix, it is my prerogative to charge a fortune for my time and not allow you to see even a pinkie toe'.

I read Belle De Jour's books. I was well behind everyone else who had read them years ago. They did inspire me to do two things. Firstly, I started going to the gym because I remembered how much time I had on my hands due to my working circumstances. Secondly, this blog. Once again, I am totally behind the times. Of course, as another member of the sex industry, I haven't joined the hordes claiming the author must be a fake. I don't really care. Her sex scenes were all rather Martin Amis. But, I like his style. I do wonder why people don't want to believe a hooker could have an education. I have a rather lengthy one myself. So why the hell not?

But, enough about her, let's talk about me...Later. It's time for breakfast.