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

My sex life is completely different from the charming, obliging, no-nonsense director I play in my line of work as a dominatrix.

Thank god. I would hate for there to be any crossover. I need a space where I’m not performing, not managing someone else’s expectations, not holding it all together.

The work is structured, purposeful; my private life is not. If the two bleed into each other, I think I’d start to feel like I was always on duty.

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

Fortunately, the details vary wildly. I don’t wear tights and sweaters for shag, for starters, which I always do as a director. At home it’s much less contrived – sometimes underwear, sometimes nothing at all, usually whatever happens on the floor by the end.

In private, I much prefer to be the one who gives up control. I like to be beaten and beaten– but only by him. This is entirely my decision. I want my submission to be ours alone.

I’m monogamous and a little upset about it. There is something deeply satisfying about reserving that side of myself for just one person.

And yes, I suspect part of the appeal is precisely because I spend so much of my working life in charge. Releasing this, even briefly, feels as much a relief as a pleasure.

Also, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to kidnap me. Get it wrong and you can do real damage. If a cane hits your thighs, you will be marked for months; if it takes your kidneys, it can kill you. I have seen enough enthusiastic incapacity to last a lifetime.

Before I met my now husband 10 years ago, I would attend the kinky sex party, which tended to be a masterclass in just that. The men were so excited at the sight of a half-naked woman on their laps that all reason forsook them. What followed was a kind of apologetic petting, as if trying not to wake a sleeping pet. It is unbearable.

Being lightly stroked is infinitely worse than being hit too hard. At least the pain has purpose; half hearted is just humiliating. I had, on occasion, let people try – just out of curiosity – but not often, and never twice. Once is usually enough to confirm my suspicions.

And then they’d start trying to role play, telling me I’m a bad girl, a shame on schoollines delivered with the enthusiasm of a wet jersey. No, no, no. I want to lose myself in the feeling, not to create an even more idiotic dialogue.

Role playing does nothing for me. I want perfect silence, interspersed with regular kicks and grunts, not inappropriate scolding routines. Which is odd, I suppose, given how much time I spend role-playing for everyone else, fully realizing how important it is to get every detail right.

But this is for customers, who are often extremely strange. “Can I role play being your matron and peeing on your balls because you didn’t wash them properly?” Well, yes, I definitely can. Do I want to do this in my downtime? Very not. Fortunately, neither does my boyfriend.

At home, more than being caned, I like playing with the breath. It causes the strongest feeling of euphoria – brief, overwhelming and surprisingly peaceful. You never want to come back from it.

I won’t do this to a stranger. It always amazes me that clients trust me enough to ask for it. I wouldn’t believe me. But better to play with someone experienced than to experiment alone: ​​listen enough within the industry, and see enough reported cases, to know that people are badly wrong.

But at home, after work is done, I’m always eager to crane my neck for a quick squeeze. But only for one man. And yes, there’s something undeniably sexy about it—that he gets a part of me that no one else can buy, no matter how much they offer.

I hit it too, and enjoy making it bleed, but it feels completely different as part of the foreplay: more instinctive, less observed. With clients, I’m always aware—of timing, of feedback, of doing it good.

At home, there is no performance in it. There is no point in giving something away. It’s just us, responding to each other in the moment, which makes it feel so much more intimate, even when it’s rough.

And once I’m done and he’s cleaned up, I can be on my back for a hard hard pounding, which is honestly what I love most in the world, and no one else gets that either.

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

“Yes, you’ve been extremely misbehaving and you deserve a good thump up your bare bottom,” I drone, looking at the clock, wishing the minutes past so I can get back into bed with the only man I love.

He’s not only the key to my pleasure—he’s the only one who makes it feel completely real.

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