Learning to Hold the Whip

“Is it appropriate to talk about your mistress in that familiar tone?” I ask, meeting the client's eyes across the table.

“Maybe not...” he mutters. I cut him off.

“What ought you to call her?”

“Goddess.”

“Yes. You should.” I keep my gaze on his face, not moving. I feel very strong.

“And how should I address you?” he asks quietly.

“You may call me Mistress.” 

My mentor, Goddess Sophia, rejoins our table and I slip away, shaking with adrenaline. In the bathroom I let out a little scream. I'm laughing out loud as I stare at my eyes in the mirror; pupils dilated, breathing fast. I am wild with excitement at what I've just done. I am also slightly pissed.

During my prolonged bout of unemployment, Sophia called and suggested I give Dominatrix-ing a try. Now here we are in a restaurant in the West End, having an expensive and boozy lunch with one of her regular clients. Sophia's been doing this for ten years, and she's known me since we were 13 – we were in church choir together – so she's the perfect person to teach me. I'm giving orders to a wealthy man in his 50s, who calls me Mistress. When I reach for the flask of water on the table Sophia says, “Frank* will do that for you.” He stands mutely to pour my drink. I am completely addicted to this power, the knowledge that I can impose myself on this stranger. 

Later an elderly man will bend over the iron bed frame as I cane him. I hardly mark him at all, and am relieved to hand over to Sophia and let her show me how it's done. When he's gone, I'm frustrated; I want to try again – artly to improve – but also, I find I want to hurt him. In my own sex life I'm submissive and slightly masochistic, so it's a shock to find I enjoy causing someone pain. My desire is to do with freedom, a wild will to test boundaries, to find the limits of what we can get away with together. It's also a craving I didn't know I possessed: to overcome the other person, affect them, to impress myself on to their behaviour and their skin. I don't feel morally conflicted by it; this is something he wants and for which he is willing to pay a lot of money.

Sophia doesn't consider herself a sex worker, but many of the men who come here (it is overwhelmingly men) finish their session by masturbating to orgasm. To me, that makes it unmistakably sexual. But there is a significant difference between this and stripping or prostitution, where the dynamic is based on the illusion of intimacy and attraction between the client and the worker. Beyond a brief chat before the session starts, the dynamic between Domina and client is held up by the separation between them. Although sexualised behaviour takes place, only one person is required to give anything of their own sexuality, and it's not the worker. She remains aloof, in control; her inviolability, her all-pervading authority is what the client is paying her for.

So I find I'm not disturbed by the masturbation. Nothing is required of me save my studied disinterest. Being in the room with someone who is masturbating is exciting, but not sexually so – it is more a sense of breaking taboos. As he touches himself we trace the welts of his well-caned skin with our fingertips and talk about how much we love caning men. I'm thinking, “I can't believe I'm getting PAID for this!”

And I am. I earn an exorbitant sum in one hour during my favourite experience of shadowing Sophia: a client who comes to us wanting to be tickled. He is blindfolded and bent over the furniture, tied up like a Christmas turkey. We spend the hour tickling him with soft little floggers, keeping our voices stern, but his giggles are infectious and Sophia and I grin at each other as we work. At the end of the hour we sit and rest our feet, clad in old Converse trainers (for which he has a fetish), on his torso while he masturbates. Once he's showered and dressed he comes back in to say thank you before heading back to the office. It is 10pm. His handshake is firm and he makes the eye contact of an assured, socially adept man. 

This is a job that pushes boundaries – mine and other people's – and shows me parts of myself I didn't know were hidden. I don't know if the boundaries will be too blurry for me to do it long term, but right now I know I want to meet my inner sadist again. And get better at using that cane.

*not his real name