Some clients arrive at a booking already knowing exactly what they crave. Henry was one of those men — polished, powerful by day, yet secretly desperate to kneel. He wanted more than companionship; he longed for surrender, for the sharp edge of control. That’s where I stepped in. A blonde escort in London doesn’t just bring beauty, but also the art of transformation. In a quiet hotel room not far from the glamour of Oxford Circus escorts, I found myself sliding into a role that felt as natural as breathing — Mistress.
I felt overwhelmed by arousal. Being his dominatrix was going to be far more fun than I had expected. My suspicions had been right — Henry loved being submissive.
“Go to the bedroom and wait for me,” I told him. He bowed and obeyed at once.
I lingered in the bathroom, slipping into the outfit I’d packed for this exact role. A corset of black leather, laced edges, gloves to the elbow, and heels that clicked like punctuation on every step. In the mirror, Mistress stared back. My whip hung from my hand, light as a feather but heavy with meaning.
When I entered the room, Henry stood in the centre, eyes cast down. He didn’t raise his head until I gripped his hair and forced him to look at me.
“Strip, slave,” I said quietly.
He obeyed at once, folding his clothes with almost ceremonial care. I watched without shame; it was my right. Soon he was bare, standing still, awaiting the next order.
The sharp tap of my heels carried across the floor as I circled him. I ran the whip along his spine, then snapped it hard across him. He twitched, grunted, but didn’t move an inch. A red mark bloomed and I smiled.
“On all fours,” I commanded.
“Yes, Mistress.” His voice was hoarse already.
I lashed him again, then again, until he whimpered softly. Only then did I call him closer.
“Come here, slave.”
He shuffled forward on hands and knees until he reached me. I stroked his hair. “Good boy.”
I knew he adored my heels. “Take them off,” I ordered, resting one foot on his shoulder. He reached with his hand, but I stopped him. “No. With your mouth.”
It took time, awkward effort, but he managed. Barefoot now, I let him see the reward of his devotion, and I could tell he was trembling with need. Perhaps this is why men who command boardrooms by day seek out Oxford Circus escorts by night — not for release alone, but for the rare privilege of surrender.
I leaned down close. “Do you know what you want?” I asked softly, pressing my foot against his chest so he couldn’t answer. His eyes widened, desperate, pleading. I smiled, a secret between us.
Later, when I finally allowed it, Henry whispered for the one thing he’d never dared before. I granted him that indulgence, a fleeting taste of uncovered oral in London, knowing it would brand itself into his memory. The gratitude in his eyes was enough.
By the end, his body was marked, his voice spent, but he glowed with satisfaction. And I? I felt the rare thrill of real power — the knowledge that he would return again and again, chasing the Mistress he had finally found.
If Henry’s story stirs something in you, imagine how it feels when the fantasy doubles. For those curious about surrendering to not one, but two commanding figures, read our tale of Boss’s Orders in a Piccadilly Hotel — where authority takes a sharper edge and yielding becomes the only choice left.