I run a sex school from my kitchen to teach women how to dominate ‘naughty’ men

It’s a bright, cold Saturday afternoon in my kitchen-turned-classroom flooded with watery British sunlight that flatters no one — least of all three nervous would-be dommes.

I’d cleared a space between the toaster and the cat bowls, attempting to create something resembling an ‘educational environment’ — notepads, pens, sample enquiries from potential clients to help them spot time-wasters, a cane, slipper, and tawse.

As I fussed with the props I saw three bouncy-haired women saunter up my drive. They were practically vibrating with anticipation at the notion of domme school.

This adventure had begun a week earlier, when they found me on Instagram. One messaged, asking if I would teach her and her pals how to be professional dommes.

‘Gosh,’ I’d said, ‘that’s an interesting idea. Perhaps one day I might.’ Then they explained they were planning to spend £2,500 each at the London domme school in Shepherd’s Bush, which first opened its doors in 2015. At that, my inner bargain-hunter shrieked.

‘Don’t do that,’ I told them. ‘I’ll teach you for £200 apiece. It might not be any good, but it’ll save you a small fortune.’

So that was that, I inadvertently founded my own domme school. I felt nervous and ill-prepared. I’ve never tried to teach anyone anything. Anything I can do, I manage by instinct and sheer dumb luck.

Happily, I discovered they were keener on having a giggle than learning the technicalities of how sex workers navigate the banking system and border guards.

You’re often quizzed about why you’re entering a different country when you have a suitcase full of canes and video cameras. Sex workers are increasingly being turned away from the US, even if just for a holiday, with the advent of facial recognition. A few of my pals have been detained and deported at their own expense.

Instead these women wanted to hear mucky anecdotes and try on my shoes. This I could manage.

We eased into an hour of theory. Spanking positions, types of implements, the mathematics of a good flogging stance, role-play, outfits, the psychology of dominance. They took notes very seriously for the first 10 minutes.

They read through a dozen or so of my prepared emails and expressed horror and outrage at the idea they’d be expected to spend a good four hours a day dealing with admin.

Answering emails, booking dungeons and flights, locating pale pink plastic bloomers (they love the sensation and crackle – masochists seeking discomfort) suitable to accommodate a 20 stone builder going by the name Lacy Louise. It all takes time.

After an hour of theoretical discussion, I brought out a genuine client who popped by for them to practise on.

Peter, the obliging gentleman, lives near me and can withstand – or thrive upon – astonishing amounts of pain. I’ve finished our every session for the past 20 years by stuffing great wads of kitchen roll down his pants to absorb the worst of the blood from the caning and spare the train upholstery and his trousers. He doesn’t like role-play, however, and he’s quite deaf. 

‘Now, Peter, I understand you’ve been an extremely naughty boy?’ my pupil suggested, tentatively.

‘Naughty, you say? Of course I haven’t. Giving up my Saturday to help you girls practise, aren’t I? Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Just hit me.’

So she hit, with all the force in her right bicep, cane in hand. Between the four of us we managed to satisfy him, though at the finish my walls resembled a Jackson Pollock done in burgundy. Thank heavens for washable paint and robust stomachs.

Afterwards, flushed and exhilarated, the girls asked whether I could provide different men next time – men whose skin wouldn’t disintegrate upon contact, men amenable to being called pathetic worms, men who didn’t mind having their bottoms appear on the internet.

Finding such creatures, I warned them, might prove tricky. Men adore the fantasy of handing over control, but the reality, when it involves documentation and consent forms, it tends to dampen their enthusiasm. Still, if anyone can source a small stable of suitable volunteers, surely it’s me.

When the practical portion ended, we sat with thimbles of prosecco, surrendering to the hen party vibe, to discuss the all-important matter of domme names.

They gravitated towards the classics – Mistress This, Countess That – all rather leather-and-dungeon, not my personal taste, but it means less competition in my own domestic niche.

I suggested they all do three things that weekend towards their new careers. Choose a name, get an X account and an email address, and place their first advertisement.

‘Perhaps a competition between the three of you as to who can make the most money from sex work this month!’ They all nodded, but I suspect they never followed my advice. They’re all in well-paid careers already – property development and social media.

What they really wanted was a chance to feel a little bit naughty for an afternoon. To imagine a future where they could dress in latex and be worshipped for dirty cash, rather than be dreary respectable sorts in sensible shoes.

‘One day,’ they said, ‘when the children are grown, when I divorce my husband, my parents are dead, I will not care what anyone thinks, but spend all my time having fun and being adored.’ That day, I suspect, won’t come.

Of the 25 or so women who’ve seriously requested my help, none have ever managed to succeed in sex work. They expect non-stop fun, and are perpetually disappointed. This is primarily a customer service industry.

As a domme, you do as you’re told, day after day: you do and say whatever makes your clients happy. I’ve done it for 30 years, it’s no different from hairdressing or waiting tables, except with better outfits and remuneration.

I’m certain those three pupils will never make it either. But for £200 they bought a chance to dream in technicolour.

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