It all began with a request for a London outcall, though I never expected it would lead to my first taste of dominance. In a Mayfair hotel, curiosity turned into control as I stepped into the role of a dominatrix for the very first time.
The agency had just sent through a request for an outcall in London, and the name attached was Marcus. His message arrived with a neat file of instructions, pages of carefully outlined wishes. At its core, it wasn’t complicated: he wanted me to take charge. Our agency keeps things discreet, no mention of fetishes, yet I’d once ticked “light BDSM” on my list of curiosities. It seemed harmless at the time, until suddenly there it was, staring back at me in black and white. I admitted I’d never worn the crown of a dominatrix, but Marcus didn’t flinch. “If you’re willing to try, that’s enough,” he said. Curiosity is my weakness. I agreed, we set a safe word, and the appointment was made.
The hotel was too elegant for my denim dress. Marble underfoot, polished brass everywhere, staff gliding about as though they’d been rehearsing their movements since birth. I felt small, slightly out of step, but treated with polite deference all the same. When Marcus opened his suite door he didn’t waste words. He studied me with a calm intensity and let his fingers trail down my arm. My body betrayed me with a shiver. Shame it wasn’t him taking control. That might have been interesting.
He gestured towards a room, explaining he’d prepared everything I might need. A suitcase. A paper bag with a logo I didn’t recognise. Inside — black leather, stockings, heels. I slipped into the outfit, surprised by how natural it felt to stand in front of the mirror laced into something so commanding. From the case I picked a few items, more for the theatre of it than anything else. By the time I stepped back into the suite, Marcus was already on his knees, head bowed. Something in me shifted. I didn’t need to say a word.
What followed was a dance between hesitation and authority. The sound of leather in the air, the sharpness of silence, the small intake of his breath when I pushed just enough. Each instruction I gave seemed to solidify something in me I hadn’t known was there. He obeyed without question, his restraint almost more intoxicating than my freedom. I surprised myself with the tone of my voice — clipped, cool, and unfamiliar. It thrilled me and unsettled me in equal measure.
I made him wait. I made him ache. His eyes searched for permission that never came, while I indulged in the delicious cruelty of letting time drip slowly between us. The more I denied, the more he seemed to glow under the weight of it. I realised then that working as a domination escort wasn’t about the props or the costumes. It was about control, the power of choosing when someone is allowed to surrender. Watching him strain against his own desire became its own form of release for me, strange and heady.
When it was finally over, when the air grew heavy with the aftermath of all that tension, Marcus collapsed into the mattress with a sigh that sounded almost like gratitude. And me? I sat quietly, still in leather, pulse racing. I had crossed some invisible line, and there was no going back. The night had taught me something I didn’t expect: that perhaps the role of a dominatrix wasn’t just playacting. Perhaps it had been sitting there inside me all along, waiting for someone like Marcus to draw it out.
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to explore the edge of power with a domination escort or you’re curious about booking an outcall in London, this story might tempt you to take that step yourself. And if you enjoy stories that lean into seduction and physical allure, you’ll love reading Seducing with Curves as a Busty London Escort.