Mistress

Adventures in unexpected domination.

Once a year in January, I take myself on a trip to somewhere sunny, to shoot content. I never spend more than about £1300, but that goes a long way, purchasing from a package holiday company and traveling within Europe. This year, I’m in the far south of Fuerteventura, at a large resort hotel with spacious bedrooms and a beach nearby. This beach is frequented by naturists, which means it’s possible for me to shoot nudes outdoors without causing offence.

I mean, theoretically I could be shooting outdoor nudes. In practice, it’s cold here this week, which is something I’ve not experienced at this location before. It’s disappointing not to be able to work outside, but my bedroom is photogenic, and filming only indoors allows me to be fantastically efficient. I shoot photosets and dance videos for my OnlyFans and LoyalFans pages, custom videos for people who’ve booked me in advance, and speculative content for which I make up stories, act them out, and hope that I’ve judged my customers well enough to ensure that they’ll sell decently.

Working long hours, interspersed only by visits to the buffet for swift meals, is tremendously fun, but hard work. I’ve made up a story for a feature length epic movie called “Forbidden Love in the Witness Protection Scheme” and it requires many costume changes and camera moves. My Forbidden Love series is one of my bestsellers, and features me, talking to the camera (which represents my eternally unspecified younger male relative) about our mutual, taboo attraction to each other. Every episode is a complete reset, so I always make a great drama out of trying to resist temptation, before eventually succumbing and consummating the relationship in a variety of exotic ways by around scene five. Between it and my other content, I’m fairly tired by day 5 of my trip, and I’ve booked an exciting-sounding seventy-five minute massage for midday.

The fact that this may have been a mistake becomes almost immediately apparent. The massage therapist appears committed to doing everything very, very slowly, and with an exceptionally light touch. So light, in fact, that it sort of tickles. Like a spider, trickling across my back on horrid tiptoes. Roughly halfway through the massage she asks me to turn onto my back before placing a cloth over my eyes so that I can’t see. Presumably this is meant to be relaxing, but when paired with her extra slowwwwwww technique, it’s merely disconcerting. Her hands keep lifting from my body for long pauses, and I find myself repeatedly waiting nervously, unsure as to which part of me they’ll land on next. I fight the urge to flinch — I assume she’s not massaging me badly on purpose so for her sake, I try to maintain the fiction that this is in any way enjoyable for me. It’s actually a relief when it’s over — by this time I’m a bit chilly from the lack of activity, and not remotely relaxed. I try not to let myself think of how much content I could have produced in this seventy-five minute period, if I’d not decided to spend £100 having cold oil rubbed into my body at glacial speed. I suppose that the problem with spas at resorts is that the practitioners know you won’t be back for regular appointments, which perhaps makes putting effort into doing a good job feel futile. I return to my lovely luxurious room, climb gratefully into the dressing gown that came with it, and apply my makeup ready to shoot more videos and recover my spirits.

It’s not til after dinner, when I’m at my laptop putting finishing touches to my uploaded content that I check my emails and see that I’ve received a message. It contains an attachment — an old picture of me from an OnlyTease shoot. “Good evening, mistress”, reads the note, “Can you confirm that this is you, please?”

It’s an easy wish to grant. I reply in the affirmative.

He responds almost immediately. “Thank you so much! Would you allow me to send you a small tribute?”

This has never happened before. I see no harm in it, and am a little intrigued as to how small he means. I have visions of a five pence bank transfer arriving. I thank him and send him my payment details, and within minutes, fifty euros have arrived in my account.

I don’t have time to reply before an additional message arrives. “And please, never say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’; it would be beneath you and it is an honour!”

This is more challenging. I’ve never failed to thank anyone for a gift before, as far as I know. I consider how to navigate this new-to-me fetish. I decide that explaining what I’m going to spend the money on is a good way of showing appreciation in lieu of thanks.

“How lovely of you. I have received it! I am going to spend the money on a massage because I had a terrible one this week and I want to have a better experience.”

I hope this conveys the right tone. I suppose I should try to sound loftily pleased, rather than ungrateful or sneery. It’s hard to say — I’m a submissive, but purchasing a massage for my dominant isn’t something I’ve ever done — at least, not as an act of submission. I don’t know what sort of response would be most welcome. I suspect I might have failed to deliver, by being too polite. I have not the least idea of how to be a mistress, out of the blue at 8pm.

But barely a minute passes, before another notification from my bank lights up my phone. He’s sent another fifty euros. I check my email. “If you have such a wonderful use for it, I’ve sent some more. It would be wonderful for me to know that my mistress received a good massage from me!”

Goodness, in the space of less than 20 minutes, I have become a mistress. I write back, remembering not to say ‘thank you’. “I will have an amazing massage and it will all be because of you. I appreciate it greatly!” Dominating anyone in real life has never been something I’ve wanted to do — I can’t bear the idea of physically hurting anyone, even if they like it as much as I like being hurt, and I find the idea of trying to deliver an IRL sexual experience for a relative stranger pressurising and stressful. But this polite exchange has been fun, and interesting. I find myself feeling a responsibility to my new customer.

So, first of all, I promise myself that I really must book this massage, and spend the entire amount he’s sent on it. Secondly, I must write and tell him when I’ve had it, and let him know how much I enjoyed it. Fortunately, I know my enjoyment will be considerable — I’ll book a brilliant therapist I already know. I’m not sure what else I can do in order to reciprocate fairly, but I wonder if sending a photograph after my massage would be good. Or maybe that would ruin the fantasy by being too generous? I’m not sure.

One more message arrives. He says he feels very proud, and I find myself delighted to hear it. “If you have any requirements for your legs and feet, please feel free to request them firmly.”

I wonder if I shall. I’ve never had a professional pedicure, for example. What an interesting development. Is this the thin end of the wedge, I wonder? By the end of 2026, will I be demanding Louis Vuitton luggage and telling random men to eat their own jizz? I suspect not, but I’m looking forward to my massage.