As I write this, I am sitting on a pile of red velvet cushions, having my feet massaged by a chastity-cage wearing slave, sipping a glass of vintage champagne. My long, straight, blonde hair hangs low about my corseted waist, and I am toying idly with a diamond-handled crop, waiting for my footslave to make a casual mistake.

At least, that's what you'd think, isn't it?

Actually, I'm sitting cross-legged in front of my laptop in my flat in North London. It's a hot day so I'm only wearing a pair of panties, but I'm afraid they're not latex or anything. (Despite my love for latex fashion you won't find even me wearing it in 30 degree heat. C'mon, I'm not a masochist.) The place needs a bit of a tidy - there are various items lying about from the session I did earlier. A box of recently opened black rubber gloves, a black and white ball-gag, a chrome leg-spreader with two heavy leather restraints. My kitten comes in and starts playing with the leg-spreader, fighting with the leg-cuffs. Silly cat. I separate him from his prey and put them to one side and give him a bit of a cuddle.

So, now the myth is exposed just a little bit, perhaps it's time enough for an introduction? My name is Goddess L. I am a professional Mistress in the London area, and this, my friends, is my diary. This is where I tell it straight up. This is where I stop pulling the punches. If you're looking for a sanitised, glamourised, extended work of 'erotic fiction', I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. But if you want a peek behind the scenes of the day to day workings of a real life Domina, well, stay a while. You never know, you might like it...

…I suppose it all started when I was in my teens. I was working part-time in a comic store and I would see all these shifty-looking older guys coming in and buying these books with a bit of paper over the front, sealed in plastic bags. I assumed it was straight-up porn, but could never work out why they didn’t just buy a copy of Penthouse of go to one of the dirty bookshops up in Soho. So one day on my lunchhour I sneaked a peek at one of the sealed magazines…and I suppose that was it right there. Beautiful, black-and-white illustrations of cruel, fur-wrapped women making men lick their shoes whilst torturing their genitals with bizarre-looking devices, whipping naked flesh with devilish-looking instruments, and immobilizing them with intricate rope bondage that turned their skin blue. The look of fear and desire on the men’s faces as they were tortured by these imperious creatures, who in turn, inspired respect and awe in me. The women’s legs extended and ended in sharp spikes, like a transmutation of flesh to reflect their sadism. The waists, cinched in with black material, shiny like a beetle’s carapace. And the men, their naked and groveling submission, their jutting hard-ons despite the humiliations inflicted upon them (or, as I now understand, because of them.)

If I were making this up as I went along I’d say I quit my job there and then, and this article would be called Confessions of a Teenage Dominatrix. (Hey! That’s got a good ring to it actually. Booker Prize here I come.) However it didn’t quite work out that way. It was, however, enough to lure me to my first ever fetish club, a night called Submission at an old warehouse in London’s King’s Cross. I was under 18 but I pretty much walked right in, I’d always been able to pass as older than I was. I shudder now to think of how I must have been dressed – you wouldn’t see me dead in PVC these days – but, somehow, I pulled it off. I strolled in, and before I knew it, I was surrounded by admirers, who wanted to buy me drinks, worship my feet, fetch me things. I relaxed lazily back in the leather chaise longue. I remember thinking: “This’ll do nicely.”

And how right I was. Suddenly, I had gone from being a slightly awkward, punky teenager to a powerful, confident and commanding woman. I knew that each of these men was competing with each other to be shown my favour. It was incredibly arousing, knowing that I epitomised their fantasies and that each one would leap to serve me with literally a click of my fingers. I lay back and took off my shoes, commanding two slaves to the foot of the chaise longue. I let each foot dangle lazily over each side of the chair and told them to suck on my toes. The sexual tension was palpable. Each worshipper was aware of my spread legs and the proximity of my pussy, yet it was completely inaccessible to them. (Although not to the beautiful young couple that I ended up going home with that night…but that’s a story for a different time.)

Anyway, to cut a long story short, that night was something of an education to me…not that I let on at the time. After all, a Dominant woman knows exactly what she wants and how to get it at all times…right?

‘til next time – G L X