When I first began as an independent escort, I promised myself one thing — I would never let go of the part of me that craved domination. The thrill of control, the art of guiding someone else’s desire, was too deeply woven into my skin. So when the agency called with a client request that hinted at something darker, something playful, I agreed almost before the words were finished.
For two days I let the anticipation coil inside me. It had been months since my last session, and the waiting itself became a kind of foreplay. I dressed simply, arriving early at the hotel with my secret outfit folded neatly in my bag, ready to slip into when the time was right.
Henry answered the door before I even knocked twice. He was younger than I had pictured — lean, restless, with soft curls brushing into his eyes. On the phone his voice had carried the weight of experience, yet in person he looked almost boyish. That contrast tugged at me immediately.
“Hi,” I smiled.
“Hello, beautiful,” he replied, a little too quickly, as though he’d been standing by the door, waiting.
Inside, the room was far grander than I’d expected. I wondered idly what a man his age had done to afford such a suite. He poured me a drink, his hands betraying nerves, and we sat together on a loveseat that seemed to swallow the space between us. Conversation began stilted, but softened with time. I brushed his hair back from his eyes, touched his arm lightly as I asked about his hobbies, until the tension in him shifted from fear to something warmer.
Half an hour slipped away before either of us acknowledged why I was there. His words faltered when I let my hand rest on his thigh. He swallowed, lips damp, but he didn’t stop me. That was enough. With a playful little smile I slid onto his lap, catching his mouth in a kiss that let me set the pace, the pressure, the depth.
Still holding him close, I pulled his wrists behind his head and whispered, “What do you think, Henry? Do you want to be my boy toy?”
“Yes,” he breathed, almost too quietly.
“Not yes,” I corrected, trailing a fingernail along his throat, pausing just enough to make him shiver. “Yes, Mistress.”
His eyes met mine, clear and hungry. “Yes, Mistress.”
And just like that, I felt the chains of routine escorting fall away. Here, in the pulse of his surrender, was exactly what I’d been missing.
If this story stirred something in you, you’ll love the continuation of Kate’s tale in Kate Sets the Stage for a Dominatrix Session. And if you’re ready to experience the art of surrender yourself, explore our world of domination escorts in London — women who know exactly how to take control.