Myth: It’s all about sex

Reality: It’s all about control

Foreplay begins well before the client walks through my door. He only ever sees the end result: the perfect, total picture of everything he had until then only fantasized about.

It’s overwhelming for many of them at first. They see their darkest, most disturbing fantasies come to life, and the squeaking PVC of her cat suit is more real than anything that’s happened to him in years. Her scent is so intoxicating he can almost taste it at the back of his throat.

My clients pay a lot… because they get a lot.

I’m an artist, and the first brush strokes I lay down are some of the most important. I spend at least 30 minutes primping my outfit before anyone steps a foot into my dungeon. I wouldn’t want a wayward eyebrow hair or a rough hangnail to destroy the illusion, would I?

Around two thirds of all the men I see are roughly identical: they all have the same haircuts, the same pale indents on their ring fingers, the same nervous hunger in their eyes. They pay me upwards of $700 for a half hour of my precious time, and for the mind-blowing thrill of being told what disappointing little scum they are, and how if it pleases me I might decide to allow them to lick my boot.

I’m not a prostitute. In fact, whatever the opposite of a prostitute is, that’s what I am. I make my own rules, do as I please and earn obscene amounts of money in the process. I am a “Pro Domme” to use the lingo, but I’m more than that. For me, it’s not much of an illusion at all. I’ve already played at being weak and helpless in this life, and I like my current game much, much more.

I spend hours getting dressed, grooming, painting my face. When I look on as men spill all those despicable desires that the world out there likes to pretend doesn’t exist, I make sure I’m looking my absolute best.

For most people, my occupation seems cheap and dirty. A little alarming. But that only tells you about them, not me. And if anyone wanted to take any of it away from me, they’d have to claw it from my cold dead hands. I’m a connoisseur and a “dominatrix.” I’m classy, refined, and demanding. But really, none of those labels matter at all.

What’s really important is that I’m the one choosing those labels, and at every step, I am in perfect, complete control. Always.

In the upstairs bathroom, I take my time smoothing down my blunt-cut Cleopatra hair, admiring its blue-black shine and how perfectly cliché it looks against my plasticky red lips and pale skin. Thank God for clichés, though – they’re what let me communicate with a client. And take his money.

I shift my ribcage a little in my corset and make sure all of me is squeezed, zipped and tied in tightly. With such gorgeous supporting tension all the way up my spine, my bare shoulders can rest easy on top, the shoulder blades pulled back into a practiced pose that tells men who they’re dealing with before I’ve even spoken a word. I seldom wear black. My hair and sinister expression are dark enough. Wearing white PVC and leather makes me seem all the more frightening, and is somewhat cooler in the more unbearable California summer months.

I crack my knuckles; flash one last cold smile to the mirror and head into the bedroom to put on my heels – always the hardest part. Curling over crunches up the layers of leather and the steel corset boning and makes getting those stilettos on a real pain in the ass. But I remind myself to take my time. He can wait for me. In fact, I decide to let him get a really good look at the dungeon while he waits.

He’s a new-ish client, but I know him inside out already. Early thirties, a finance sort with a bad gaming habit and more money than sense. He was tired of working. Tired of being a dog in a dog eat dog world, and most especially tired of all the quivering girlies who wanted an alpha male to make them feel like Cinderella.

He didn’t want any of that. No, he had come to me for some discipline. For training. For a brief glimpse of what it might feel like to crumple to someone else’s will for a change.

I told him if he behaved I’d take him on as a student, and if I felt like it, I’d give him a certificate to hand to any of his future mistresses who might like a boy who’s already broken in. Oh, he liked that. I know his type, of course. Spoilt. Scared. I’d enjoy being the first woman to truly tell him no.

I made my way downstairs, heels snapping on the cool marble of my arcing staircase. My house was big. Maybe too big. But I liked having space between me and my little sex pigs. Even if it meant occasionally wobbling down three floors in six-inch heels.

I reached the basement, took one last breath of the air on this side of the dungeon door and took a step inside. I exhaled. Bolted the door. I made sure that no matter what, it always creaked and moaned on its hinges, and banged shut loudly, just so.

Like I said, I’m an artist.

The dungeon was large – twice the size of a regular bedroom and deliberately kept a few degrees colder than the outside world. If my clients wanted to descend into forbidden realms with me, I wanted it to feel completely real. A bare lightbulb hung from a wire on the ceiling and dimly illuminated the concrete floor, the instruments of torture, the chains, the ropes, and the steel frames over which I had strung countless writhing, grateful bodies.

My plaything had obeyed my instructions and was already sitting patiently on a stool, waiting for me, hooded, shirt removed, hands on his knees like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be caned. In a few moments, the whole sordid saga would begin.

Every client is vetted rigorously before we get to this point. I had already given him a thorough interview about each and every dirty little element that was about to unfold in this room now. But it’s good practice to give them one last check-in anyway, before the masks are lowered and the game is officially on.

“Mr. Lewis. Shall we begin?” I said coolly. He didn’t have to see me to know that I was standing before him; legs spread wide, arms on my hips.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.

Good. I kicked aside a coiled chain on the floor and watched as he jumped at the sound.

“Turn around, boy! I want to tie your hands.”

When he swiveled on his chair and offered me his shaking hands, I could make out a thick, pulsing vein in his neck. I was going to be his first Domme. How sweet. I roughly tied his wrists, knotted the rope tight and tossed it to the side, before spinning him around again and yanking off the hood.

“You’re not as muscular as my other toys,” I said nonchalantly, and eyed him up and down. His eyes fixed on my patent leather heels and I could tell he was wrestling internally on whether to risk glancing up at me. Now, before we continue, I should tell you: this whole business has nothing to do with sex.

I paced a slow circle around him, rocking leisurely back and forward on my impossibly high heels. I glanced over at him again.

“Well? Are you just going to sit there and waste my time, boy?”

His eyes shot up to my face.

“I’m a busy woman. And I’m a greedy woman. I won’t bother to train a fuck toy like yourself if I’m not convinced you’re worth the time, you see? I’ll--”

“Mistress, I’m ready to do anything for you and--”

In an instant I pulled back my arm and brought it down hard against his cheek, the slap against his face echoing in the dungeon. His eyes went wide. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully.

“Boy, you seem to misunderstand something. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are here to please and amuse me, nothing more. If I have to remind you of this twice, the second time will be a lot more painful for you.”

He swallowed so hard I swear I could almost hear it. Then he nodded vigorously, the skin on his cheek turning a mottled pink. My own hand stung from the slap. I started to pace again but he was frowning and shaking his head.

“Ok, pineapple” he said nervously. “Pineapple.”

I raised my eyebrow at him. The safe word. Already?

“What is it?” I said. I crouched onto my haunches and looked him square in the eye, the Mistress Morgan mask lifted for a moment.

“I just …are you sure about this? That seemed so hard and I really don’t want you to hurt yourself. Is your hand OK? I just feel like…we’ve spent so much time making me comfortable here but what about you? Isn’t this weird for you?”

I sighed.

“Mr. Lewis, I’m a professional. I have been doing this for years. You’re in safe hands. And you don’t have to worry about me, ever. I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced. It happened, sometimes. Social programming can run deep, I knew how it went. There was a savage deviant somewhere in Mr. Lewis, and I understood that he was squeamish about letting it out.

“I keep thinking, though, do you really want to be doing this? Not just with me but in general. Is this kind of thing …I don’t know, doesn’t it bother you after a while?”

I smiled at him slowly. He probably had daughters close to my age, poor bastard.

“What about your emotions, you know? I was reading this article about how women get this surge of oxytocin after every sexual encounter, and it’s this hormone that makes them feel emotionally bonded to that person…” here he looked imploringly at me.

I chuckled under my breath and gave him a wry smile.

“Mr. Lewis, I can assure you, my hormones will not be interrupting our session today.”

He squirmed in his seat.

I was losing him.

Newbies were fun but needed a delicate touch. Some needed to be pushed, some teased, and I had to make that decision now, and hope for the best. I stood tall and cracked my neck, first one side then the other, then gave him a hard look.

“Can I tell you a secret, Mr. Lewis? I think what we’re about to do here is much, much more of a risk to you.” I pulled up a stool, sat down and dramatically crossed my legs, peering at him from behind my heavy black hair.

I had his attention.

“Let me tell you a story. Back in my old life, I remember being at a conference lunch with some businessmen, and we were all sitting at this big table, deep in conversation. I was the first to notice her – a beautiful young girl walking through the restaurant. Blonde. Gorgeous. Wearing next to nothing, you know the story. She waltzed through the place like she was on a catwalk. Anyway, I looked and then promptly forgot about her and carried on with my conversation. Except that everyone else at the table – all men – had turned to watch this woman walk by. Like synchronized swimmers, their heads turned, all at once. Now, I won’t say the word was ‘looked’ because it was more than that. They gawked. They were hypnotized. All conversation stopped during those thirty seconds and everyone forgot what they were doing, or why. It was like nothing else mattered for them in that moment, except that pretty girl.”

I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, with a carefully, cultivated expression of aloofness on my face.

“You can imagine I was quite amused. I’ve seen some intriguing men in my life, Mr. Lewis, but I’ve never been so spellbound by one that I forgot myself like I saw those men forgetting themselves. And that’s when I realized: it’s men who are slaves to their biology, not women.”

I exhaled loudly and made sure the breath lifted my breasts high in my tight corset. I made a mental note to punish him later for second-guessing me.

“You talk about hormones and emotions. Well, Mr. Lewis, let me tell you, when it comes to emotions, it’s really men that I pity. They’re at the mercy of their baser instincts, and can’t help it. If you’re worried, be worried for yourself. After all, it’s your hormones that have led you to this dungeon, to be tied up and stripped down and who knows what else, by me, the weaker sex,” I said and finished my story with a playful wink.

The look of relief and adoration that washed over his face was exactly what I was angling for. I could almost see his heart beating hard in his body.

“Now, Mr. Lewis, I’ll ask you once more. Shall we begin?”

He swallowed again. Hands pulled back, his toned chest was on full display. His eyes were calm and focused, but by now I knew that to really read a man, you need to look lower down. A woman keeps her feelings in her eyes, but a man? Look for that tell-tale tension in the jaw, those fleshy ropes in the neck that hint at some delicious torment going on beneath. Naturally, the fact that his cock looked ready to rip through his trousers was another clue.

He nodded and hung his head slightly.

“Good. Like I said, I don’t usually take on a plaything if he’s as scrawny as you are, but on the upside, I won’t feel too guilty when I eventually break you,” I said and paced over to a steel tray laid out with whips, dildos and restraints. I wouldn’t use even half of this today, but I didn’t need to – the impact of him merely seeing them there was enough.

I ran luxurious fingers over each tool and settled on a long, thin leather riding crop. I loathed going to fetish stores to buy gear like this, so it’s just as well that it turns out some of the best whips and crops come from actual equestrian stores. The woven leather handle felt firm and sane in my grip. I took some practice swings and sliced the air a few times, then raised a bored eyebrow as I examined the small tab of raw leather on the very end. Yes, it would do nicely. Soon this little flap of raw leather would go whistling through the air and bite brutally into my slave’s naked flesh. He’d have to be properly naked first, though.

I extended my arm and used the tip of the crop to tap the belt loops of his trousers.

“Take these off,” I barked.

He scrambled to his feet and clumsily worked to pull them off, but his hands were still tied and he struggled to pull down the cotton boxer shorts underneath. I stood tall and looked on like a cat watching a wounded mouse flail around. Eventually the trousers came off but the boxers remained. He was decently sized, and the rod of his swollen cock lay neatly across the top of his leg.

My file upstairs on Mr. Lewis listed, cock humiliation, worship, whipping, and org. denial in the activities box. There aren’t many women in this world who can look at a strong, imposing figure like Mr. Lewis and know that all he really wants is to be laughed at and teased. But then, I’m not just any old woman.

I took two menacing steps towards him and nestled the tip of the crop into the waistband of his boxers, then pulled down, revealing a tightly coiled mass of hair at the base of a well-defined V on his abdomen.

“You dirty boy. Take this off. And for your sake I hope I like what I see.”

It’s hard to describe that particular facial expression. That gentle kink in the eyebrows, that sweet suggestion of pain, but with the lips still soft and adoring, the mouth a little open, the eyes glazed over the way one stares at fire, or a hallucination. What do you give the man who already has everything? You give him the one thing he never thought to pay for: agony. Surrender. Oblivion. The loving and brutal constraints of a relentless Domme can turn a man into a mystic, ready to ruin himself entirely for a moment of fleeting sweetness at the altar of her leather boot.

Twisting his bound arms to the side he managed to slide off his boxers and release a thick, purple-tipped cock that was as crude and angry looking as its owner was clean-cut. I curled my lips as I stared at it, then burst out laughing. Yes, even laughter can be an instrument of torture, if the part you want to torment lies in the softer, inner meat of your slave’s psychology.

His face flushed a deep, excited shade of red. I marched over to him, pushed him so he collapsed backwards down onto his seat again and looked down with amusement at his cock, pointing straight up.

“That’s it? You have the nerve to come here to my private chambers and bring this measly thing as tribute?”

I dragged the rough end of the leather strip slowly along his engorged shaft and smiled inwardly at how this seemed to stop his breathing.

I never touch them.

Ever.

Like I told you, it’s not about sex. There is at all times a barrier of leather, PVC or even silk and brocade between me and my dirty boys. How could it be otherwise? I have sensitive, delicate skin, and I don’t need their filthy bodies to irritate me any more than they’re going to irritate me already.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. These scenes don’t exactly look like the skillful, beautiful transfer of pleasure, the movements don’t seem like they belong to humans who are sane or healthy, and the words don’t exactly make you think of romance. But that’s exactly what it is. I used to scoff at all of this when I first started out, too. But I understand now. And understanding men is one of the sexiest things you can do for them.

The leather strip now at his tip, I flicked my wrist a little to bob his dick from side to side, like a vague threat. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and made sure he saw how unimpressed with him I was. What I most like about men is seeing them this naked. This vulnerable. Almost like weird crustaceans completely de-shelled, raw, exposed.

“Filthy little animal. You’re turned on, aren’t you? Disgusting,” I say with a dark smile. “Your cock is an immense disappointment, and now you’ve gone and put me in a bad mood, you little cretin. Stand, and apologize at once.”

He jumped to his feet, purple cock bouncing.

“I’m so sorry, Mistress, please forgive me, I’m sorry my cock doesn’t please you.”

With my riding crop placed on his shoulder, I press him down, down until he was kneeling before me, hands still firmly bound behind his back.

“That’s enough! You can’t even apologize properly, clearly. No matter. I might have considered fucking you if you weren’t such a worthless little shit, but now I’ll have to find another use for you.”

I laughed as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his whimper.

“I don’t particularly want to torture you, boy, but you’ve brought it on yourself by having such a pathetic little excuse for a cock. On your knees,” I said curtly.

He obeyed.

Towering over his crumpled form, I stepped closer and carefully placed the pointed toe of my boot against the base of his cock. It only took the slightest stroke and he was harder still, so hard it looked like he was already about to explode. The gesture itself wasn’t important though. What counted was the threat coiled up inside it, all the potential violence, the cruel possibilities that came with pairing his most vulnerable part to my harshest. I watched as a shiver pulsed through him, and I watched as his eyes flickered back a little in his skull. He was close.

“Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. “Little pig, you misunderstand again. You don’t get to come in here.”

I caressed my boot over the tender end of this cock. You can see how easy it is to get carried away in the role when your slave is so willing to come at the thrill of merely being grazed by your boot.

“If you make a mess in my chambers, boy, I shall have to punish you. This isn’t about you and your hopeless little prick. It’s about me. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I continued stroking.

“I permit you to worship me now,” I said.

I could tell it was difficult for him to think clearly, being so painfully on the brink of coming, but forbidden from that relief.

He thought for a moment.

“Mistress is very kind,” he began. “I am not worthy of Mistress. I am not worthy to praise her, to say how beautiful she is…”

“Good” I said, placing my foot between his knees and making him spread them wider.

“I only want to serve Mistress,” he whispered quietly, with that expression, you know the one I mean.

“That’s enough, don’t grovel,” I said. “I know you’re completely untrained and honestly, I don’t believe you have what it takes to be one of my fuck toys. But I am kind, and I’ll forgive you for having such a miserable little cock. Tell me, boy, do you know how to come when you’re told?”

I watched the swollen flesh twitch and harden.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said quietly.

I’ll stop there, I guess. You don’t need to know what I whipped him with exactly, or what I did to his poor, undeserving balls. You don’t need to know that I had him hanging onto my every word so he knew exactly the moment he was allowed to finally squirt his little load, and then thank me for the privilege. Mr. Lewis’s first lesson in ruination was quite exhausting for him, and I decided, reluctantly, to let him serve me at another date as a prospective trainee.

But you don’t need to know about all the other horrible things Mr. Lewis gets off on. Perhaps what you really want to know is, why do I do this? What could the appeal possibly be, and do I enjoy any of it? Maybe you have questions. Maybe you have judgements. To most of them, I have a simple response: am I turned on by any of this? No, not really. But I like the power. Pleasure is not the same as power, I know, but it’s infinitely easier to understand.

Maybe you’re wondering, if I don’t get off on this kind of thing, then what do I get off on? And to that I have another simple answer. You see, my ‘orgasm’ is well and truly delayed, in all cases. My thrill comes in the days and weeks afterwards, where I get to blow the money I make in these sessions on paying for a lifestyle more luxurious than you can imagine. My pleasures are more refined: I own property, and expensive cars, and dresses worth a month’s earnings by the common sort of girl who would rather have a husband than an offshore investment portfolio.

I’ve tried to play at love before; at the rigged game they call ‘relationships’. You could say that I was taken advantage of by men in the past, and now I get even by taking advantage of them, milking their lust and stupidity for my own gain. You could say I’m a wounded little bird hiding behind a mask of leather and steel, and I play at dominating men because I’m too scared to do anything else. You could say I’m twisted and sad and all the rest…

But I’m just not.

Take a good look because this is what it looks like, to live the dream. I do as I please, I make my own rules, and more importantly, I make more money than I know what to do with. The fact that I’ve never had an orgasm of my own has long stopped being a worry for me. In fact, it’s a blessing. I’ll leave all that weakness to my clients.

I finished up Mr. Lewis’ session, saw him off and closed up the dungeon for the evening. Tomorrow was my off day, and I was glad to peel off the smothering corset dress and put on my ragged cotton pajamas and some old socks.

I went upstairs, removed my makeup, took a few deep breaths and helped myself to leftovers in the fridge. My clients like a bit of escapism, a bit of high-gloss fantasy. But their fantasy is my hard work, and my real treat is just to be ‘ordinary’. I flopped onto the couch with my laptop and settled in for a night of mindless Internet surfing and YouTube makeup tutorials.

I am Mistress Morgan, professional Domme and proprietress of pain and all things dark and delightful. But I am also Nora Smith, a businesswoman, an introvert, a girl just like any other, on the couch, in her unremarkable pajamas.

I’m not a prostitute.

I offer a valuable service to some of the country’s wealthiest, most powerful, and most complicated men. But in all things I have complete control and power. After all, who is more powerful, the wealthiest man in the country or the woman who can make him cream his pants with a flick of her riding crop?

What goes on in the dungeon is scripted and predictable. But the story I’m about to tell you is about what happens outside the dungeon.

I’m going to ask you again to forget what you think you know about how this story will unfold. Don’t try guess where it will go, because you know nothing about me.

Nobody does.

And I like it that way.