famous last words...

Despite my cries of ‘never again!’ there I was, up to the elbow in arseholes, making a living. Oh, the shame. I exaggerate. But, after a request from a client that I haven’t seen for some time, I was lured back to work. It was unavoidable. Winter in London is fairly unbearable with the gas cut off and I need to save up for flights home. Reality is a painful thing, sometimes. I didn’t play in my own space, but returned to a dungeon that I’d spent six months renting by the hour until last year. I have a house guest at the moment. In any case, I did find the experience reassuring. I had the chance to check out the competition and although nobody wants to tell me that business isn’t booming – yes, Mistresses lie to each other far more than they lie to their clients – I could see that we were all in the same boat. In fact, maybe I was in a slightly better boat. It’s also easy to start believing the hype about colleagues when the only way you view them is via their heavily touched up pics one their websites. Oh, what a relief: they are normal people, after all.

In order to make my visit more worth while, I dragged in another client who I’ve been seeing for several years. He’s an obnoxious little toad, bless him. So much so, that I didn’t care for his tone when he first called me and almost refused him. However, it soon became apparent that his obnoxious act was all a front. He’s one of those ones who have to be pushed into everything. Except this one has to be generally pushed. It’s not like that fat man who wanted to be dressed in plastic bags while he half heartedly wailed ‘Oh no, Mistress, please, not the plastic bag’, before prematurely creaming in the bag. This guy seems generally offended when he comes to, post orgasm, covered in piss. I told him not to cry last night. At some point, he was visiting while a had a slave scrubbing the kitchen. This querulous request came out: could I have the slave come on his face. Sure, I cried. Unfortunately, the slave couldn’t perform and we all went home disappointed. Another time, I found a very enthusiastic young man online who was very well endowed and achieved his task with gusto – albeit without accuracy. I thought the experience had traumatized my client, although I found the whole experience very amusing. But, he kept on coming back, complaining the whole way.

So. Last night, I decided to re enact these past experiences, I employed a strap on and a pump action bottle of lube for the ‘money shot’. At least I was accurate. He got a shot of lube right in the eye. I’d been reading Martin Amis and had to admit that my words and actions were influenced by what I had read. I must have been a bit excited after my absence from the dungeon. This was apparent from the FILTH that was coming out of my mouth. My mother would have washed my mouth out with soap. Nothing could stop me. I think he had a great time…Him and his befurred little body.

spanking 101

Ok, enough about substandard television. After our much vaunted initial training session, the formality of the whole thing fell to pieces. Those of us who survived (or weren't too grossed out about the whole thing) were simply put on shift and away we went. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I recall some guidance about spanking. A cross dressed young man called Rosie offered up his sweet round cheeks and I was taught 'spanking 101' in the lounge, after I'd bent him over and flipped his frilly dress over his back. He reported that the experience was lovely, how delightful! I was also given the basics on rope bondage and taken into a couple of Mistress S' sessions. She was very accomplished with the old rope bondage. We wrapped this guy in industrial strength cling film and hauled him onto a bondage bench where he was strapped down with leather. Then S framed his head with a neat rope cage.

What Mistress S neglected to teach us was the Mistress manner and the way to subjugate and deal with slaves verbally. She seemed to think we would just pick this up naturally. I had no idea what the hell I should say. I remember being put in the room with a slave once and just told to boss him around a bit. But, what does this actually mean? I had him light some candles and crawl about on the floor and then was at a loss. These days I waffle on for the entire session and crack jokes left right and center. Keeping tight control over all the action comes with ease. Man, I truly sucked at the beginning. I do envy new Mistresses who at least begin in a dungeon with some equipment. This particular one was lacking on this front. Although, I was rather horrified last year when I was in a rental dungeon and was introduced to a newbie Mistress who'd had about an hours' training. I suppose they didn't cover safety during the training because she was casting about, asking for advice as to what to do for her hour and a half session. I gave her a couple of ideas and then showed her how to use the suspension winch. She then said 'oh yeah, so what should I do? Attach this to a collar around his neck and winch him up?' Fuck me. I think I said, 'No, don't do that. Do other stuff, but not that.'

I'm watching these two idiots on television struggling to control their huge black dogs. They let the dogs loose in a field which is surrounded by an electric fence. This is after the dogs have pushed their male owner in the fence and he's been shocked. Ha ha. These idiots communicate via walkie talkie (or totally FREAK OUT via walkie talkie, if you prefer) while the dogs romp around the field, having a great time. I've never seen anyone so daft and so frightened of their own pets. And then, they move onto cooking the three course meal for these dopey animals. I'm feeling like an immensely relaxed and chilled out person now. See, crap reality television has a purpose.

Dominatrix in training...

After my initial 'job' interview, my boyfriend collected me and we went for coffee. It may sound incredibly naive, but I really hadn't thought at all about what may be required of a Dominatrix. Not that I can remember, anyway. I'd fooled about with rough stuff with my boyfriend, but hardly expected that a Mistress shags her clients. Essentially, I'd approached my interview with a completely empty head. Well, I was a bit nervous, but I was empty of preconceptions other than I thought I'd probably wear fetish clothing. Let's remember that I was only just legal.

In any case, nude men didn't bother me at all. I was just concerned about the golden shower situation. I suppose there's something inherently vulnerable about a woman urinating...It's bare arsed stuff after all and what if I became stricken with stage fright? But, my general excitement and curiosity overcame every concern.

So, coffee and a chat. My boyfriend decided that he was cool about the whole thing and he was to remain so for several years. So, I called M. S back and left a rambling message saying that I was really VERY interested in the job. And away we go.

Us trainees really were a shabby lot. There were seven of us, but this was swiftly whittled down to about three. There was the obese, awkward one, the ropey, middle aged one who took to it instantly and the manic depressive twenty something pseudo hippy who was pretending to be sane. The rest have disappeared from my head, as I'm sure I've evaporated from theirs'.

Everything was distinctly weird, really. But, as it was carried out with such decorum, we all just fell into it. So, that was my first understanding of the relativity of weirdness. Our initial lesson involved M. S' defacto partner taking his trousers off and offering up his tackle for bondage practice. That poor bastard. And we were all under the impression that he wasn't into it! So, we all took our turns, rifling around down there as he stood passively with his hands behind his back in this scantly furnished dungeon. S was good with rope and I always had been too, so I soon had his balls wrapped up without difficulty. It's rather difficult to explain how it's done without a visual example on hand. But, once you know, it seems obvious. The penis and testicles are ideal body parts for restraint. All you need is a shoelace. It's just that easy.

So, that was lesson one. It all seems a bit dull now...

So, what was I saying about hideous genitalia? It's interesting to note how swiftly this becomes mundane. Gut churning acne or curious scars become a great deal more interesting. Of late, my main concern has become foot fungus. I was playing in my own home, after all. I got THE FEAR OF FUNGUS. Warty feet would terrify me...as I drowned a man in a bucket of my own urine...I'd piss all over the place and then carefully disinfect everything that this man's feet had been in contact with.

But, not everyone has horrifying feet and I managed to avoid even the curse of athletes' foot - which was often running rampant in those first shared dungeons I played in.

So, back to dear Primrose and his nipples. I recall that they were plump sultana nipples from being tortured so often. It was in watching my new employer deal with Primrose that I learned the old adage, 'just take what cash they have and do what you will'. I'm sure every sex worker is familiar with this one. On this particular occasion, a delirious and whimpering Primrose was allowed through the door, only to have it revealed that he had nothing but fifty dollars in his pocket. I was very intrigued and hanging around the lounge room in my cheap PVC, with my ear pressed to the wall, wondering what oh what would happen.

It was very simple. Mistress S (as I'll call her from now on) had a bit of a shout. You know how it goes: How dare you, who do you think you are, scumbag, worm, pathetic, etc. Then it was, TAKE THIS TISSUE, MASTURBATE INTO IT AND GET OUT. Darling Primrose dutifully did so and was sent off with a flea in his ear and a soggy tissue in his pocket. If I was into paperwork, I would have been taking notes. Some Mistresses do take notes. I'm too lazy and prefer to rely on hazy memory.

But, I'm jumping ahead.

Before Primrose and his/her soggy tissue came along, there was my initial training session. But, I have to go and have a FABULOUS time at the gym for a while. Timing is everything, after all. More soon.

A new day has dawned, with a fresh hangover...

I was checking out some Mistress listings yesterday. I have been known to cruise around the net, having a poke about in the competitions' websites. This time, I was just immensely relieved to be out of the loop. It's a weird scene, the BDSM world. It's not just a job, you're somehow included in this coven of odd balls. Some are for real and others just faking it for the money.

'Faking it' was the accusation of the day for the first Mistress who ever taught me anything. It is true that she legged it to work in an office - feeling great relief - as soon as she had the chance. But, I think she took pleasure in her BDSM work as well. She just knew in her heart that it was all a shabby game.

I was a mostly unemployed awkward eighteen year old goth with a wacky haircut at the time. I say 'mostly' unemployed because I worked in a theatre restaurant on the weekend, dressed as a witch, while I served substandard food to drunken suburbanites. The wacky haircut was interfering with my ability to secure general employment, as was my shy nature. I was living in a kooky studio flat which was formerly an old stables and was dragging myself out of bed at 3pm once a fortnight to hand in my form at the dole office. These were exciting times indeed. I was intending to visit London towards the end of the year, so was desperate to do something of interest and scrape some money together at the same time. I was scouring the local paper for employment when I saw the following advertisement: dominatrix required, training provided. This was most unusual.

So, I let it go for a few weeks. But, the ad kept appearing and I was encouraged by my boyfriend at the time and this photographer friend who'd taken an interest in fetish looking ladies and accoutrements. He was keeping a raven in his flat. It all seemed rather cool...So, I called this woman and made an appointment to meet her.

The interview took place in an unassuming single fronted terraced house. The only odd feature was a partition concealing the front door. I was led down a narrow hall and could see a middle aged man waiting at the other end. He was wearing nothing but a cheap wig and old lady lavender court shoes. He was introduced as 'Primrose' and I did my best to be incredibly cool about the whole thing. In the dim light of the small lounge, I finally had the chance to check this woman out. She was a slim red head in her thirties, wearing a full length pvc mackintosh and ludicrously high heels. I don't think I've known another woman to work in six inch heels without a platform. But, she could wear the damn things all day.

I'd foolishly brought my CV (flimsy as it was)along and my youth was obviously a concern. I was informed that a number of 'trainees' were being taken on. This was mainly because she was strapped for Mistresses and only had another one working there, who refused to urinate on anybody. This was a sticking point. She liked my look and claimed it was a popular amongst clients - I later learned that something a little more conservative helped, particularly in London - but I couldn't work for her unless I was willing to piss on people. I was incredibly nervous about the prospect and said I'd have to think about it. (These days, golden showers are one of my specialties, oddly enough.) All the while, Primrose remained chained to the wall, hearing everything and occasionally getting his nipples roughed up. I examined his trussed up genitals. He was getting on a bit. Would all my clients be so unattractive?

I have to go away and have a good laugh about all this now.