Men pay me to fulfil their sexual fantasies, but here’s what I want in bed

My own sex life is entirely distinct from the charming, obliging, no-nonsense headmistress I play in my line of work as a dominatrix.

Thank goodness.

I’d hate there to be any crossover.

I need a space where I’m not performing, not managing someone else’s expectations, not holding everything together.

Work is structured, deliberate; my private life isn’t.

If the two bled into each other, I think I’d start to feel like I was always on duty.

Sex matters to me: feeling desired and desirable by the man I adore is as essential to me as oxygen.

In private, I much prefer to be the one giving up control.

I love being spanked and caned—but only by him.

That’s entirely my decision.

I want my submission to belong to us alone.

I’m monogamous, and slightly soppy about it.

There’s something deeply satisfying about reserving that side of myself for one person only.

And yes, I suspect part of the appeal is precisely because I spend so much of my working life in charge.

Letting go of that, even briefly, feels like a relief as much as a pleasure.

Sex.

Love.

Modern Mess.

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Also, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to cane me.

Get it wrong and you can do real damage.

If a cane hits your thighs, you’ll be marked for months; if it gets your kidneys, it might kill you.

I’ve seen enough enthusiastic incompetence to last a lifetime.

Before meeting my now husband 10 years ago, I’d attend the odd sex party, which tended to be a masterclass in exactly that.

Men became so overexcited at the sight of a half-naked woman over their lap that all sense deserted them.

What followed was a sort of apologetic patting, as if trying not to wake a sleeping pet.

It’s unbearable.

Being lightly patted is infinitely worse than being hit too hard.

At least pain has intent; half-heartedness is just humiliating.

I had, on occasion, let people try—purely out of curiosity—but not often, and never twice.

Once is usually quite enough to confirm my suspicions.

And then they’d start trying to role-play, telling me I’m a naughty girl, a disgrace to the school, the lines delivered with the enthusiasm of a damp flannel.

No, no, no.

I want to lose myself in the sensations, not come up with yet more idiotic dialogue.

Role-play does nothing for me whatsoever.

I want perfect silence, interspersed with regular thwacks and moans, not inadequate scolding routines.

Which is odd, I suppose, given how much time I spend role-playing for everyone else, fully understanding how important it is to get every detail right.

But that’s for clients, who are often gloriously odd.

‘Can I role-play being your matron and peeing on your balls because you haven’t washed them properly?’ Well, yes, obviously I can.

Do I want to do that on my downtime?

Very much not.

Happily, nor does my beloved.

I’m not going to do that with a stranger.

It always astonishes me that clients trust me enough to request it.

I wouldn’t trust me.

But better to play with someone experienced than to experiment alone: you hear enough within the industry, and see enough reported cases, to know people do get it badly wrong.

I do hit him too, and enjoy making him bleed, but it feels entirely different as part of foreplay: more instinctive, less observed.

With clients, I’m always aware—of timing, of reactions, of doing it well.

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And once I’m done and he’s mopped up, I can get on my back for a good hard solid pounding, which is honestly what I like best in the world, and no one else gets that either.

My clients get a pale, shadowy version of me, their own desires parroted back to them as if I were a talking doll.

‘Yes, you’ve been extraordinarily badly behaved, and you deserve a good sound spanking on your bare bottom,’ I drone, watching the clock, willing the minutes past so I can get back into bed with the only man I want.

He isn’t just the key to my pleasure – he’s the only one who makes it feel entirely real.

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