(I have interviewed the Mistress, Her House Slave, Her P.A., a Freudian Psychoanalyst and a sex therapist for a comprehensive article on this subject.)
(the word Mistress and related pronouns are traditionally in capital letters)
A friend told me one day – ‘I have a really interesting opportunity. If I tell you, promise not to laugh.’ I duly promised. ‘I’m going to be helping a Dominatrix. It’s mostly personal assistant work, answering the phone, taking bookings, optimising the website etc. It’s also a really great writing opportunity.’
My first reaction was, yes, amusement, but also curiosity. To me it was both shocking and exciting and, for some reason, sounded rather glamorous. Visions of black leather, masks and whips and men locked up in cages.
I met Mistress at a party, a couple of weeks after my friend had started at the dungeon. Apart from the fact that She was dressed head to foot in leopard skin and impossibly high heels, She was actually very warm and totally approachable.
I had expected someone aloof. She was with Her boyfriend. He worked in banking.
She told me a bit about Her work. King’s Cross of course. Lots of Mistresses in King’s Cross where you can even hire a dungeon by the hour. She worked from home where She felt safer. The business was kosher and She paid taxes. I had just assumed it was all cash, under the table.
Every time I saw my friend after a day at the dungeon, I pummelled her for details. ‘Oh Yuk’ I’d say but ‘tell me more….’ ‘ oh, god how disgusting… and then what?’
She said she was meeting with Mistress for a drink in a few days time – would I like to join her? We were meeting at Her house first. Of course I wanted to – a chance to see where all this took place.
When we got to the house, I was a bit thrown. I had expected at least a Victorian place, if not older. It was a modern two-up two-down and inside it was much smaller than I imagined.
‘Would you like to see the dungeon’ She said. Of course I would. We went upstairs. That disappointed me. What was a dungeon doing upstairs? How childish were my pre-conceived ideas. I had imagined a dark, dusty basement with cobwebs; something really dramatic. Too much Sade and Histoire d’O probably.
The normality made the whole thing rather seedy.
The two rooms felt small and stuffy; lots of black of course. Black curtains, black whips, black leather whipping bench. Imagining a guy tied to the whipping bench was definitely not titillating.
There seemed to be about 20 different types of whips which I thought a little excessive. No cage, which was a bit disappointing. She apparently had had one but there weren’t all that many takers and it was taking up too much room so she’d sold it.
She proudly showed me Her ‘sounds’. They were in a smart box; long gleaming silver things going up in size. Why, oh why would you want those in your dick?
We messed around with a ‘violet wand’ – it was a sort of taser thingy – a baton with an electrical charge which was used on men’s cocks, the charge being gradually increased. I put it on my arm at its lowest setting and it gave me a shock; the smell of burning hung around me all evening.
I came away disappointed and a bit repelled. The reality of these things usually disappoint, don’t they.
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