The agency never shouted about me being a dominatrix. It wasn’t on the glossy menu, not really. But I added it to mine, tucked between the usual offers, as if daring someone to notice. For weeks no one did. Then came this client—insistent, secretive, almost too cautious. He wanted something hidden. I said yes, not because I needed the job but because curiosity gnaws at me when a man is that guarded.
We met at a discreet hotel in Notting Hill. When I knocked, the door swung open straight away, making me flinch. He was older than I’d pictured, refined in that way older men sometimes are, polite but with nervous eyes.
“Hello,” I murmured, trying to sound casual.
“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he blurted, almost shy.
I laughed, brushing it off, though compliments still make me a bit awkward. Funny, after everything I’ve done, that’s what unsettles me.
Inside, he offered me a drink. I shook my head. Better to let the silence do its work. He fiddled with his hands, staring at the table until finally the words tumbled out.
“I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never done it before… but I saw something, and it fascinated me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with curiosity,” I said, laying my hand over his. My voice softer than I meant.
He took a shaky breath, then whispered, “Wetplay.”
The word just hung there. He looked away, bracing for me to laugh. But I didn’t. I leaned closer, lips tugging into something that was half-comfort, half-command.
“Why hide from what excites you?” I asked. “That’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”
His face changed then—relief mixed with anticipation. He wanted someone to guide him, maybe forgive him for wanting it. And that, I could do.
The bathroom felt like a stage waiting for us. My tone shifted the moment we stepped in, slower, sharper. Authority fits me like a second skin. He obeyed easily, carefully peeling away his clothes, and stood there—bare but unashamed. Waiting.
“You’ll undress me next,” I told him, drawing the words out, “but only when I say.”
The air thickened, heavy with trust and tension. He leaned closer, almost trembling, but steady in his surrender. And I let him. Surrender isn’t weakness, I’ve always thought. Sometimes it’s the bravest thing.
That night in Notting Hill, he learned his secret wasn’t something to fear. And I—his chosen escort—led him there, showing him that giving in can feel like freedom.
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If this story stirred something in you, explore our Intimacy Guides. Begin with The Secret Language of Power and Surrender or Discovering warmth, trust and a touch of adventure. Both dive deeper into trust, taboo and the art of giving in.