I began escorting in London nearly five years ago. Some days I wonder what life would have been like if I had finished my master’s degree, yet if I’m honest, this path has brought me freedom, friendships, and a rhythm of life that I quietly enjoy. Still, there are moments when the work brushes against old shadows, and this was one of them.
The request was simple on the surface — a client curious about a touch of bondage and restraint. Nothing extreme, just handcuffs, he said. But for me, the idea of being tied, of not being able to move freely, stirred something far more complicated. Old memories I prefer not to discuss, not with strangers. My first instinct was to say no. I nearly did. Yet I hesitated, swayed by the escort agency’s encouragement to “expand boundaries” and by the client’s polite, almost earnest words.
On the phone, I told him directly: I don’t like being tied down. To my surprise, he didn’t push back. He promised gentleness, promised to use cuffs that could break easily if I needed them to, promised no gagging, no silence, just steady communication. His voice was warm, and perhaps against my better judgement, I agreed.
At his hotel, he greeted me with kindness, offered me a drink, and made terrible jokes that made me laugh despite myself. He wasn’t trying to intimidate; he was trying to put me at ease. That helped.
When the moment arrived, my chest tightened with nerves. Yet the first kiss dissolved more tension than I expected — soft, deliberate, careful. He moved with a tenderness I hadn’t prepared myself for, brushing his lips against mine as though afraid to break me. For a while it was only that: mouths, closeness, the steady heat of skin against skin.
Then came the pause. The small glint of silver in his hand. The handcuffs. He looked at me, not assuming, but waiting. My nod was reluctant, though he didn’t take it for granted. Slowly, carefully, he guided my wrists above my head. The cold touch of metal startled me, but his closeness anchored me.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his breath warm against my cheek.
I whispered yes, though my voice betrayed the storm in me. The strangest part was not the restraint itself, but the way he kept checking, listening, adapting. He carried weight, yes, but not menace. For the first time, being held still didn’t feel like danger. It felt like trust.
I thought briefly of others who had written about their first steps into this world — like those who described their First Lessons in Bondage and realised how different each story can be. For me, it wasn’t about the cuffs at all. It was about choosing to give in, and discovering that I could.