I’ve always had a thing for kinks, I won’t pretend otherwise. Over the years as a Domination escort in London, there’s very little that has surprised me, let alone rattled me. But this new booking came close. The client’s voice on the phone was hesitant, evasive, so I told him to email me instead. I braced myself for the usual range — cross-dressing, leather, perhaps something more niche — but when his message landed in my inbox, I had to stop and read it twice.
It wasn’t shocking in the obvious sense. At its core, he wanted me to dominate him, but in a peculiar, almost theatrical way. He wanted to be stripped down, mocked, made to feel like a toy. Something about the word he used, whore, felt jarring at first. I wasn’t sure how it would sit with me, but curiosity wins more often than fear, and I said yes. We arranged a hotel in Hammersmith, an outcall the following night. That gave me just enough time to think, and overthink, the whole thing.
The day of the meeting I felt oddly nervous. Not the bad kind of nerves, more like an electric edge under my skin. It reminded me why I love this work — the variety, the challenge, those moments when I test my own boundaries as much as theirs. By the time I slipped into the hotel lobby, ten minutes early as agreed, I was restless, even impatient.
The receptionist handed me the key, and soon I was inside the quiet, generic room. Queen bed, pale walls, nothing remarkable. I used the calm to change: lace underwear, a light robe that didn’t so much cover as hint. By the time the knock came at the door, my pulse was steady but high.
He stepped inside, soft-spoken, almost shy. That contrast only fed the scene. I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Well, you finally showed,” I told him coolly, moving aside. “Clothes off.” He obeyed without protest, which gave me the first flicker of real control.
The session unfolded like a play, each of us sliding into character. I circled him, circling like a hawk, then pressed him to the bed. A belt in my hand gave a sting, not brutal but sharp enough to paint his skin. He whimpered, calling me Miss in a tone that made my spine straighten. His eagerness to surrender was palpable, and it drew out the performer in me.
I kept pushing him further — teasing, scolding, whispering cruelties into his ear. He drank it all in, desperate for the next command. At moments, I hesitated, wondering if I’d gone too far or if the edge was slipping, but each time his eyes told me otherwise. He wanted to be small, to be undone, and he trusted me to hold that line.
There were moments of laughter too, rough and a little absurd, when our bodies tangled and neither of us was as graceful as the fantasy suggested. But in that imperfection lay something real: his need to be overpowered, my delight in leading him there. That’s the beauty of gentle femdom, where power doesn’t have to roar — it can tease, command softly, and still leave deep marks on the mind.
By the time we both reached our peak, the room was heavy with heat and breath. He shook under me, voice breaking as he whispered gratitude, still lost in the role. I smiled, smoothing his hair back, pleased not just with how it played out but with how alive it made me feel. Strange request or not, it reminded me why I’ll never tire of these games of power and surrender.
We both knew, without saying it, that this wouldn’t be our last night.
If stories of domination escorts in London intrigue you, you might enjoy slipping into another tale of temptation: Hotel Roleplay in Earls Court.