A Whole Lotta Domme

Confessions of a Dominant BBW...

Being a 'big' girl in today's street parlance usually refers to the bra size one looks for in Marks and Spencer. But I've always been a 'big girl' -- since even before my mammaries started developing into the super-size jugs they are now.

It wasn't that I ate too much -- it just seemed that was how I was meant to be. My grandma always looked rather large in those old family photos, and I recall being curious that grandad was relatively puny. Not that that held any particular significance to me when I was that innocent outsize slip of a girl.

Many a teenager, blundering bright-eyed into young adulthood, is acutely aware of their body, and all of its shortfalls from the accepted norm. Their lives are often a wretched experience because of it. Not so my own. Despite being the size of a house, I was relatively content. I accepted being 'Fatty Mattie' early on at school, but because I was friendly, and took all the jibes in good humour, people were inclined to drop the unkind names, and instead, affectionately refer to me as Tilda, which of course is short for Matilda. Which itself is a bit of a laugh, since Matilda invokes the image of a slender waif. Well, to me it does. Don't argue.

My lovely mum splashed out and enrolled me at ballroom dancing classes when I was in my teens. She figured I would need all the help I could get to reel in a marriage prospect later in life. The class was short of boys, so several of us girls had to double-up as practice partners. Obviously, I wasn't any boys' first pick, so I found myself constantly doubling up. Nothing wrong with that, but you find yourself learning to dance like a man, wrong foot leading, etc.

About week four, some new boys joined. I found myself paired with Lenny, a nervous little lad, who persistently trod on my toes or held me by my bum instead of the middle of my back. I repeatedly told him off, in as nice a way that I possibly could, but it seemed the more I scolded him, the more excited he became, and the more he tried to touch me up. Admittedly, he had a problem actually reaching round to the middle of my back, and he did often have to contend with my leg in his groin, as a result of my dancing-gender, but he was enjoying it too much. In the end, I smacked him round the head, incurring the wrath of the teacher, who informed me that my behaviour was not considered acceptable ballroom protocol, and banned me.

Maybe such injustices germinate the seed which determines the way one's life subsequently is to pan out. Or maybe I would have grown into a bossy cow anyway. Don't answer that.

Certainly, losing my cherry quite early on, albeit during an illegal drink and drugs-fuelled rave, did give me an extra confidence boost, and I eventually secured a clerical job, where quite quickly I achieved promotion to office manager.

A couple of years flew by, and I was becoming quite settled. My job involved dealing with people -- something which many folk cannot handle. But I was good at it, and I knew it. My only niggle was the money -- I felt I should have been earning more. Then I met Nina.

"But your smile lights up the room, Tilda," Nina protested, when I suggested my appearance was not a money-spinner. "And when you close your mouth, your classical bone structure and big brown eyes frighten the shit out of a significant slice of the male population. You're perfect BBW Domme material, Tilda. You gotta believe it."

Up to that point, we had been casually chatting about life, clothes, money and other London clubs besides the one in which we were sitting -- me, Nina and Nina's friend, Ray. Looks-wise, Nina was the opposite of me -- tall, blonde, slim and stunningly beautiful. For a moment, I thought they were lining me up for some friend of Ray's, and were encouraging me to feel wanted.

"A WHAT material?" I spluttered, almost choking on my treble Club Malibu cocktail.

They explained the terminology. Yes, I knew I was 'Big', and a 'Woman', and I did have hair as black as night, ruby lips and naturally-long eyelashes. But 'Beautiful'? I was certainly kissable, I thought. Just whether the rest of me was worth bothering about.

"Loadsa men would sell their souls for a night with you," Ray chipped in. "Bigger the better, many'd say."

But it was the 'Domme' bit that was giving me the collywobbles. "That's something involving stiletto-heels and whips, right?" I said, choosing to be cagey, as I was not well-versed in the genre. "I don't do either of those things."

"Ray and I run a little business over in Bayswater," Nina explained. "It needs an extra partner to make the books balance and cover appointment overlaps. You and me, Tilda. We'd make a perfect team. Drop in for a cuppa, sometime. See what you think."

"Whoa," I remonstrated. "You're talking about a knocking shop? I can't believe..."

"No no," Nina interrupted. "Nothing like that. Discreet. Private. No sex involved. Well, maybe the occasional helping hand, but we're not whores, Tilda. I like to think of myself as a deviation therapist. You can make your own rules, and what you say, goes. Think of it as social services."

I was anything but convinced. It sounded like something I'd been warned about at Sunday School. "No chance," I said. "Not unless Hell freezes over first."

By the following Wednesday, the weather forecast for Hell had seriously changed for the worse, largely as a result of my application for a salary rise having been turned down. I took some time off and tubed it to Lancaster Gate. Nearby was Nina's little den of iniquity -- a basement flat. It was accessible via steps down from the busy sidewalk -- better than being in a quiet apartment block where all non-residents are viewed with suspicion by neighbours and security men. I pinged the intercom.

"Mistress Thunderthighs reporting for a cup of tea," I said.

"Push the door and come through, Tilda," Nina answered, laughing.

We sat and drank tea in a tiny kitchen area, while Nina gave me a brief run down. Then she showed me round. There were more rooms than I had imagined for a basement flat -- a dressing room for staff, a utility room, and three rooms converted for special-purposes, including a schoolroom and Ray's pride and joy, the dungeon. I tried not to be too fixated by some of the equipment and the variety of costumes hanging around.

I began to understand why, despite Nina's high earning power, they needed an extra source of revenue to counter the overheads. The flat was in quite a respectable area of town, so the rent was high, and they had a full-time maid to field the phone enquiries, keep the place tidy, and deal with the often icky business of cleaning up after a scene. It also needed the beefy Ray, who provided backroom security, in case things ever got ugly. Nina's skilled boyfriend also doubled as carpenter, and electrician. Don't ask.

"So, when can you start?" Nina challenged. I felt that I needed a training course, and at least a hundred dry runs. Why on earth don't they put these things on the National Curriculum? She read my thoughts. "Here, I've scribbled a few do's and don'ts -- give it a read, then have a shifty in the dressing room wardrobe. There's some size 24 stuff which might fit you. When you've got a bit more established, you'll be able to get some nice outfits made to measure. I have a sissy client due in a couple of mins, so I need to get cracking. Catch you afterwards -- we should be able to get you started this afternoon."

I refused to let Nina's whirlwind suck me into its vortex. I don't do panic. I do control. I figured her urgency was a tactic to get me on board before I'd had time to think it all through properly. I made myself another cup of tea, and out of curiosity, skimmed Nina's ad-hoc dominatrix manual.

Negotiation of the scene... safe words... panic button... first aid... what to do if joe passes out... places on body to beat... places not to beat... rope knots... Rope knots? It was reassuring that if after learning all this and the job fell through, I should be able to breeze into the Royal Navy.

Things on offer... things not on offer... I resolved there and then, that not on offer was my nudity, or sexual contact. And neither were showers of any colour -- don't even look it up. Do what you're told. And I was not put on this planet to wear a strap-on dick. Forget it. For the moment, anyway.

I began to wonder if I had anything worth offering at all, but as Nina had said, the Dom/sub relationship is more about the dynamic, and the mindset of each of the players. "No one wants to be knocked about, per se," she had postulated, "but plenty of men find the allure of an attractive dominant female so powerful that they are willing to submit to anything they are bid to do. And the more demeaning, humiliating, or painful the experience, the greater can be the return. Don't knock it. It's how it is."

The list seemed endless. I was particularly intrigued by the 'What to do if you lose the key to his cock-cage...' The answer was over the page. 'Don't lose it.'

Inevitably, by mid-afternoon, Nina persuaded me to give it a go. My first client, Peter, was apparently a regular, and had been entrusted to my care. Or maybe it was the other way around. I thus launched my pro-domme career as strict schoolma'am Miss Mattie. I'm not sure who was more apprehensive, he or me.

In a starched white blouse with long black skirt and boots, a teachers black gown and a mortar-board worn at a jaunty angle, I confronted the wicked boy, sternly looking him up and down, then in the eye. He couldn't stare me out, and eventually bowed his head, gazing sheepishly at my feet. I had him drop his trousers and stand in the corner for a while while I re-read some of Nina's notes. Then, in as strict a voice as I could muster, I summoned him back to my desk.

I felt I was pretty convincing about my disapproval of his unsatisfactory homework, and I also asked him to explain his frequent unpunctuality. He was suitably wimpy and apologetic. "This won't happen again, will it, Peter?" I demanded to know.

"No, Miss Mattie, sorry Miss Mattie. "

"Because we know what happens to naughty boys, don't we, Peter?"

"Y-yes, Miss Mattie."

It was a good job one of us did -- at that point in time, I had very little clue.

With the assistance of a bendy school cane and the safety pin which stopped the waist-band of my skirt bursting open at the back, I winged it for another half an hour or so, then dismissed the doleful miscreant. A few minutes later I joined Nina in the kitchen. Shaking my head, I had to confess I was not cut out for this kind of work, and was really sorry for wasting her time.

She tucked a handful of twenties into my shoulderbag. "Peter left..."

Then, breaking into a smile, she added: "He asked when possibly would Miss Mattie be good enough to see him again."

With growing confidence and diminishing inhibitions, I ground out my apprenticeship over the weeks following, and my office began to see less and less of me. I became quite skilled at using the various apparatus and equipment, and developed reliable techniques for flogging, pegging, suspension, trampling, objectification, hot wax dripping, CBT and other assorted acronyms sounding ominously like hospital departments.

More importantly, I learned how better to communicate with, and understand my visitors beforehand, in order to elicit their exact fantasies, fetishes, and foibles, and what they expected to get out of the session. My friendly nature was a boon in that respect, making nervous chaps happy to bare their souls, as well as other bits. On my part, I could gauge the correct measure of intensity and duration of each unique scene, and what was right for the client, who after all, was paying the bills.

Also, as a conscientious worker, I prided myself in conveying the most erotic nuance possible to each activity. This could be as trivial as lowering my head and widening my eyes while giving an admonishing look, or ensuring a client could hear the rustling of my petticoats, or the sound of heels pacing a hard floor, while he was blindfolded, or out of eyeline. I soon became convinced that the anticipation of what is going to happen is infinitely more arousing than the delivery itself. What can be more exciting than being tied up, or chained down, movement inhibited, escape impossible, feeling totally vulnerable, and you just don't know what that huge beautiful crazy bitch is going to do to you? Do you? Well?

An experienced Domme knows these things, and it makes life easier for Her and more enjoyable for him... and the occasional her. Don't press me.

I seemed to be getting along fine, so I invested in some specialist clothing. I don't do rubber or plastic -- way too much of my body area needs to breathe. But nice, lined, soft leather looks the business and feels divine on me. Unfortunately, having stuff tailor-made, and needing such a vast quantity of material, pushes the price through the roof. But hey-ho, the cash was rolling in.

On one otherwise uneventful day, I entertained a smart, young, well-spoken client. He gave me the impression that he was more used to giving the orders than taking them. Maybe that's what attracted him to my services -- some relief from the pressure of responsibility of office, maybe. After a pleasant enough session of collar-and-leading, foot worship, and light punishment, our capable maid Flo, who absolutely nothing seemed to faze, eventually saw him out.

"You know who that was, don't you?" Flo said to me, back in the kitchen. I didn't. She enlightened me. I immediately became aware of a unique claim to fame -- I had given a junior cabinet minister a good spanking on the bare bottom.

Some weeks later, this particular VIP re-visited our cosy pleasuredrome, specifically asking for little me again. (And of course, I mean 'little' as in relative to the world order, compared to him). Throughout the session, I couldn't help reminding myself that this man, flat on his back and tightly strapped to my bed, told people what to do on behalf of the whole nation, and here was I, sitting on his face, casually reading my book while occasionally flicking his willy with the little leather flap on the end of my riding crop. It was most enjoyable -- "The Convenient Marriage" by Georgette Heyer. Have you read it?

Now and then, I would break the silence by asking, with cheerfully detached concern, "You alright down there, my love?" A 'Nnnmmff...' indicated all was well, and the country was in safe hands.

All our egos got a boost a few days later, when a media company asked if we would allow them in, to do a photo-shoot of a 'typical' London BDSM set-up, and the lovely ladies, suitably attired, who worked it. They offered an extremely generous fee, and anonymity was assured, if we desired it. Foolishly, maybe, we went for it. The proofs they gave us were brilliant, and would be invaluable marketing aids.

However, the chariot of life does not whiz along forever without a wheel coming loose sooner or later.

Suddenly the nation's news was a-buzz with impropriety and scandal in high places. My naughty plus-size-knicker-sniffing front-bencher was in the dog-house (this time for real), having been snapped by the paparazzi entering a certain 'sleazy dungeon', exterior and interior photographs of which adorned the Sunday newspapers, alongside pictures of the seductive sirens who had tempted him thereinto. Namely, me and Nina, though mostly me, I am proud to confess.

The general public revelled in the prurience of the detail and the salacious pictures which accompanied the damning exposé. As for our upcoming politician, his career was in tatters. As was his marriage. His harmless peccadilloes had cost him dear.

As for me, well, I had been hit hard too -- the ignominy of the exposure, the shame of it all, plus we were fined a nominal sum for contravening some contrived bye-law. But... boy, did I look good in those press photos -- black leather corset, opera gloves, and fishnets... and my phone hasn't stopped ringing since, with lucrative book deals, chat show invites, magazine feature articles, and... the odd naughty boy needing correction. My rates are much, much higher now though...

End.