Before I ever began working as a Party London escort, my world revolved around dominance. I lived and breathed control for years, my clients seeking me out precisely for the thrill of surrender. Some still whispered about it when they booked me, delighted to slip back into the darker corners of my menu. This man, however, was new. He hadn’t explained himself, hadn’t made a single specific request. Only that he wanted to be dominated, and that I needn’t go easy. That was enough to awaken something inside me. It had been a while since I had truly stretched that part of myself.
I arrived far too early, nervous about being late but really just restless with anticipation. On the street I looked forgettable, almost like a mother running errands in jeans and a plain top. Beneath the surface, though, a secret armour waited: black lace, a tightly packed corset, impossible heels, and an assortment of tools that only made sense behind a closed hotel door. He had asked for domination without conditions, which in truth is my favourite sort of man—one who relinquishes choice before the game even begins. Not every encounter is like this. Some men only want a taste of control, others need coaxing, the same way a bashful client might stumble over words before revealing what he really desires. I remembered once Flirting with a Shy Gentleman, how different the energy had been, all hesitation and soft smiles instead of chains and orders. Tonight was the opposite—tonight was about pure surrender.
When he opened the door, his eyes moved over me with suspicion, weighing me against whatever picture he had built in his mind. “Are you Amy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I smiled, stepping inside.
I asked him what he liked. He only said, “I can be into anything you want me to be.” It was both reckless and perfect. The kind of answer that puts the entire night into my hands.
“Miss will be fine,” I told him when he asked how to address me. That word still thrilled me. Others liked to be queens, mistresses, ladies. For me, “Miss” was sharper, less ornate, more commanding.
There’s an art to this — some nights are about the cruelty of restraint, others about the patience of Gentle Femdom, where you draw out surrender not by force but by suggestion, by making him ache for every scrap of attention. I could already feel which way this evening wanted to go.
I left him briefly to change, and when I returned, he was already waiting, blanket pulled across him like a fragile shield. I stripped it away without ceremony and leaned close enough for my lips to almost touch his. I whispered, “I’m going to make you mine.” His body shivered, betraying how much he craved the words alone.
From there the session unfolded like music I had long memorised but not played in years. I bound him in place, not cruelly but firmly enough to remind him that his body was no longer his own. He obeyed every command with a fervent hush, straining at times but never breaking the role. I tested his endurance, teased the edges of his control, prolonged him past where he thought he could go. Every flicker of sweat, every tremor across his chest, told me he was learning what surrender truly meant.
When he begged, I made him ask again, colder this time. When he faltered, I reminded him who held the reins. And when I finally allowed release, it was on my terms, not his. That was the entire point.
Later, untying him, I told him coolly, “I’ll leave you to the clean-up, slave.” The word still rang between us, heavier than any lash.
We met again after that night, several times in fact. Each time grew more intense, more imaginative. He never knew what I would bring, and I enjoyed that almost more than the acts themselves. For both of us, Femdom became less of a service and more of a game of trust—one where I always wrote the rules.