I drive past a cheap hotel, staking out my prey. It’s almost midnight and the air is cold. It’s tucked at the back of a service station off the motorway —dingy and deserted, the perfect spot.
Pete* has told me he’ll be dressed in a light beige coat and jeans, lurking a few feet from the hotel entrance, like a solitary smoker. I think that’s him, but I can hardly afford to make a mistake.
Am I scared of getting caught? Of course. My heart is hammering painfully in my chest. But I’m a respectably dressed smooth talker, charming and confident: The police would understand.
I park the car, reach for my bag, check its contents once more – handcuffs, ball gag, gaffer tape, hessian sack.
Hands shaking with adrenaline, I take a swig of water and watch him pace. He stops under the security light so I catch the glint of a badge on his lapel, there to reassure me I’ve got the right man. I roll my balaclava over my head, open the car door and walk up quietly behind him.
Kidnapping is an increasingly common request in the world of BDSM, largely from wealthy men who are in their 40s or older. It combines sensory deprivation, humiliation, bondage, power differentials and punishment into one heady fantasy, while often the captors wear leather or military uniforms to add to the larks.
It falls into the category of consensual non-consent, or CNC: an intense exchange of power which results in the giddy exhilaration of surrendering control entirely to another human being.
I’ve had a flurry of requests for kidnappings in the past two years, after making a porn film where I abducted two women and trained them to be my sex slaves.
Of course, those who engage in this kind of play must have long discussions beforehand about exactly what is expected and acceptable. Pete particularly didn’t want to be spat upon, or laughed at, or have anything inserted anywhere. He wanted to be tied down and brutally beaten before an audience, for some imagined crime. This I can do.
It’s an expensive business. Pete has paid me nothing short of a grand for his kidnapping. As a former member of the House of Commons, now in his seventies, he can afford it.
I’m nervous though; it’s a first for both of us. For him, the death of his wife a year ago left him deep in mourning, but now he’s vowed to enact each of his sexual fantasies, just once. Me? I’ll do it again if it means another £1000 in my account.
Another key part of the negotiations was choosing a safe word. This ensures that both myself and the client stay safe during the roleplay, and we can stop whenever we want or need. Pete chose ‘red’.
He doesn’t struggle particularly hard as I pull the bag over his head, cuff his hands behind his back, then force him towards my car, kicking his thigh in encouragement. I quite enjoy pushing his head down and forcing him on to the back seat, before whispering, theatrically, ‘Ssssh!’
His pounding heart is making his shirt twitch. He’s dreamt about this moment for forty years. A woman is about to drive him to an unknown destination, strip him naked, then cane him until he bleeds.
You’re reading On Call with Melissa Todd, a brand new column from Metro.co.uk
Hello there, I’m Melissa Todd – a sex worker and dominatrix. As someone who’s been in the business for nearly 30 years, I’m here to share a deep dive into the psychology of what my clients really want when they call for my services. I’ll be divulging all my secrets in my new fortnightly column with Metro, On Call. You’ll discover my tales of sex work past and a glimpse into the minds of those who’ll pay thousands to have their darkest desires indulged.
First I gaffer tape his ankles, making sure he can still walk, then I pull the bag far enough up his face to stuff the ball gag into his mouth.
‘Not going to have any trouble with you, am I?’ I demand.
He shakes his head frantically to indicate ‘no’.
‘Good. Still, can’t be too careful, can we?’
I proceed to frisk his pockets, find his phone and put it in my bag.
‘For insurance. Perhaps a few photos of your forthcoming ordeal will be taken later. Good to know where to send them. That’s your sister, I take it? And that must be your boss?’
With Pete completely incapacitated, I drive for an hour to a farmhouse, surrounded by derelict stables, owned by a fellow kinkster, already there waiting to watch, alongside a few other audience members, men and women both.
On Call with Melissa Todd
Hello there, I’m Melissa Todd – a sex worker and dominatrix. As someone who’s been in the business for nearly 30 years, I’m here to share a deep dive into the psychology of what my clients really want when they call for my services. I’ll be divulging all my secrets in my new fortnightly column with Metro, On Call. You’ll discover my tales of sex work past and a glimpse into the minds of those who’ll pay thousands to have their darkest desires indulged.
It’s drafty and still smells faintly of manure, the scent perhaps sticking to the dry hay strewn across the floor. He’s thrown down into the mucky pig pen. Dirt and dust scuff his knees and the bag is ripped from his head, so he can see his audience, sitting sombre and expectant.
He grunts and squints, lifting his hands up to his face as his eyes adjust to the flickering naked lightbulbs that hang from the ceiling.
I strip him naked and remove his gag. If it isn’t all he hoped it would be, now’s the time to tell me.
‘Please! Please – I don’t deserve this! What are you going to do to me? No, no, not that, please no!’ He plays the character well.
It’s obvious he’s getting off on the cfnm (clothed female nude male) kink. It’s all about the humiliation – we’re in uniform and powerful, he’s naked and vulnerable.
I tie him over a whipping bench, face down, legs spread, so the crowd can watch the blows fall.
One of the women, Jane, is left-handed, while I am right, so we cane him together. There’s a whoosh of air as I bring the polished wooden stick down with force, the sting of the contact with his pale flesh reverberating off the barn beams.
He twists and squirms as the welts rise. I aim for the same mark each time, making him suffer the wait for the burst of agony that is about to lance through him. Sixty strokes in total.
Blood runs down his legs at the finish. He counts the blows as they fall. ‘One, thank you Mistress. Two…’ Other than the occasional groan, he remains stoical throughout.
For this is Pete’s favourite part; the welts are so deep that they’ll take at least three weeks to heal. He’s practised at taking the cane: I’ve had clients who are still marked six months later.
He’ll be masturbating over this for weeks. The physical pain is all he wants. No affection or kissing necessary. He’s no doubt already looking forward to getting in the shower tomorrow, feeling the angry welts tingle and throb as the water rolls over them.
I leave him there for an hour before giving his wounds a cursory mop, throwing some of his clothes on, bag back over his head, and taking him back to his hotel. We travel in silence.
On the same quiet back road, push him out of the car, rip off the ties and gag, kick him to his knees before pulling his hair until his ear rests against my lips.
‘You tell anyone about this – anyone – and I’m coming for you, and everyone you love. You got that?’
I feel idiotic, a lousy amateur parody of some made for TV drama, but his gushing emails later let me know I nailed it.
He tells me he loved being at my mercy, that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He’s a powerful man who wanted to experience feeling powerless.
I know Pete’s already thinking about the next big thing, a new fantasy to plan and prepare. There’s talk of introducing a man to our next play session, with an element of forced bi, another popular request.
The kidnap was the most complicated role-play I’ve ever undertaken. I’m overjoyed it was everything he hoped for, because as far as I’m concerned, customer satisfaction is paramount.
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