Before I started as an independent escort, I spent a good stretch as a dominatrix. It sounded perfect at the time—me in charge, people obeying—but truthfully, I missed something softer. I wanted the control, yes, but I wanted the closeness too. Escorting gave me both, though it took me a while to admit it.
Archie was one of those clients who never quite hid how much he adored me. That afternoon he called, practically begging. I should’ve said no—I was tired, my head fuzzy—but his voice, the way it cracked a little when he pleaded, made me laugh and cave in. I told him an hour. Enough time to put myself together, just.
Getting dressed felt like armour: the black corset I always reached for, lace that bit into my hips, stockings I’d ladder if I wasn’t careful. The heels were more for the sound they made on the floor than anything else. Sharp, deliberate, like punctuation.
He arrived on the dot. Always did. I opened the door, said nothing, just led him through. He knew the spot in the centre of the room, planted himself there like it was holy ground.
I picked up the whip I liked best, the one with the soft tail that could almost trick you into thinking it was kind. Told him to count. He did, voice uneven. I played with the rhythm—hard, then softer, then somewhere unexpected—just to watch him stumble over the numbers. It amused me, more than it should have.
There’s something about that moment when they think they know what’s coming and you take it away. It’s the quiet gasp, the way their eyes flick up like a question mark. That’s what I enjoy. That’s where Gentle Femdom feels most alive, really—the teasing, the tug between kindness and command.
He looked up at me once, hunger in his eyes, and for a second I almost softened. Almost. Instead I pulled his head back, reminded him who held the reins. He served, awkward but eager, and I kept pushing, shifting the pace until he forgot his own rhythm and bent entirely to mine.
It wasn’t perfect—he never is—but that’s what makes it addictive. Watching him try, fumble, still push harder just to please me. I let him get close, closer than I should’ve, then pulled away. Cruel, maybe, but necessary.
“You did fine,” I said, flat as stone, even though inside I was smiling. He dropped his gaze, exactly as expected. I turned from him quickly so he wouldn’t see how pleased I actually was.
Every time, I tell myself it can’t get better. And yet, I leave the door half-open in my mind, wondering—what if next time he finally gets it right?
Curious where this leads? Slip into Foot Fetish Fantasy in a Marylebone Hotel and find out.