Mistress Miranda - Fifty Shades of Domination: My True Story

T he lights had been dimmed in the business-class cabin of the United Airlines overnight flight from New York to London the Red-Eye as it is known to frequent travellers.

Most passengers were silent and still. Only a few were properly asleep but many had huddled down under their scarlet airline-issue blankets to try and snatch a few hours of fitful rest. My travelling companion in the adjacent seat, the wealthy sales director of a British computer company, was lying prone and also covered with a blanket. Neither he nor I, however, was expecting any sleep during the flight. I was awake because I am a professional dominatrix who was being paid to tease and hurt my neighbour mercilessly that night. He was most definitely not asleep because his hands were tied behind his back and regular jolts of electricity were coursing through the metal contacts of the elasticised straps Id wrapped tightly around his testicles and the glans of his penis.

I watched his face carefully as we lay, barely a foot apart, with just the shared armrest of the seat between us, our heads turned towards each other, and our eyes locked together in the dim light. Charles adores me looking deep into his eyes whilst I am torturing him, and years of experience have taught me that you can judge a man or womans pain-endurance levels more accurately through their eyes than by any other method. The remote control device I was using, much like the one you use for your television, adjusts the strength of the battery-powered electric current rolling in waves across his genitalia. The trick is always to ensure that the discomfort levels are as high as my client can bear, without making him cry out in pain. The last thing Charles wanted was for one of the attentive stewardesses to notice anything amiss on their irregular patrols along the darkened aisle. I wouldnt really have minded if our kinky little game had been uncovered; I am often paid to humiliate my clients in public and was born with barely an embarrassment gene in my body. My only worry on this occasion was breaking the airlines rules against using an electronic device in flight. They always claim, dont they, that it might interfere with the aircrafts navigation systems?

Glancing at one of the three watches habitually strapped to my wrist (yes, I know its weird, but its my own, private, time-keeping fetish) I realised that our fellow passengers would soon be stirring. It was time to bring our game to an end. I touched the remote control button one last time to ensure that Charles penis and balls were suffering all the pain he desired. Then I made sure he was watching as I slipped a surgical-latex glove onto my hand. His excitement levels grew rapidly, his breath quickening and lips slightly parting, as my hand crept discreetly under the blanket draped across us. Fumbling in the darkness I squeezed the head of his cock, momentarily increasing the impact of the electrics and forcing the first, barely audible, moan of pain from deep in his throat. It was then but the work of a moment to rub my rubber-gloved fingers along his shaft and bring him to a shuddering sexual climax. My hand continued moving gently to give him as much afterglow pleasure as possible: a little reward for the pain he had endured. Honestly, I sometimes surprise myself with what a kind Mistress I can be! Then, still working by feel in the semi-darkness, I untied his hands, lay back in my seat and left him to clean himself up as best he could.

My Emmanuelle-type moment of teasing and torturing a client during a busy international flight is one of the more unusual requests Ive fulfilled in nearly two decades as a professional dominatrix. The biggest challenge came not from playing the in-flight game but in carrying the equipment through airport security. The tiny battery pack and remote control easily pass as a phone or iPod, whilst the cock and ball straps have tiny metal contacts but look like a fashionable wrist-band. Neither had aroused any interest as we passed through Heathrow and Newark airports on the outward journey.

My aviation adventure was the climax, literally, of a three-day trip to the US as the paid companion of my London-based client, Charles, a regular visitor to my dungeon. He had planned it partly as a treat for me, but mostly because he was desperate to enliven an otherwise boring business trip that was of necessity keeping him away from his wife and his family. Staying together in a midtown Manhattan hotel, we had explored both the city and each others BDSM (the acronym popularly employed as shorthand for Bondage, Domination, Sadism and Masochism) fantasies in a frantic day-and-night whirlwind of sightseeing and sexy games. It was far from being the first time that I had sessioned with Charles, but we had never before had so much time together to tease out his deepest fantasies and fears.

For me there was the fascination of delving deep into Charles mind and uncovering thoughts and desires that he had never openly admitted, even to himself. For him, there was the pleasure of my company by day and of the pain and torment I could bring him by night. The beauty of it was that Charles was not even, in a technical sense, being unfaithful to his wife. He, like all of the men who visit me, knows that I never have sex with my clients well not with the male ones at least. A man may well receive some satisfaction at my hands, or at the mechanical hands of the intriguing variety of milking and masturbation machines to be found in my dungeon, but sex with me is not on the menu.

The lack of penetration is rarely an issue with my visitors. They seek an experience which, whilst sexy and ultimately exciting, is centred more in their minds than in their testicles. For a complex variety of reasons they wish to be dominated, or controlled, or tightly bound in rubber or leather. They wish to be kinky and naughty and told off by a powerful and dominant woman. They wish to live out fantasies which may have haunted them from childhood. They long to test out their limits of pain, or suffocation or secret desires of bisexuality. In short, they are seeking new experiences far removed from the vanilla intercourse of their everyday lives.