Welcome to my world of being an escort cum dominatrix. It is a frank, uncensored and sometimes hilarious account of the clients that stepped over my threshold.
How I started out as an escort which finally gave birth to me as a dominatrix and a very much desired larger lady perfect for smothering, crushing and trampling.
The book is intertwined with my real-life experiences that lead me to the woman I am today; strong, independent and force to be reckoned with and an incredible ability to cripple men with expert ease while discovering my talent for beating and torturing men for a living.
Want to know about the real BDSM world then this is the book for you. Want to know what men really want? Then be prepared to be shocked and disgusted. The colour grey does not exist within my book only black and blue, and sometimes bloody.
As Jenny Ainslie-Turner’s clients know, pretty much anything goes. Her work as an escort and dominatrix was fuelled by a very real and deep understanding of what controls the male sexual psyche, a skill that has also made her a globally-renowned erotic author.
For the first time, Ainslie-Turner now tells her entire life story in ‘I Prefer My Men Whipped and Shaken: The Birth of a Mistress’. It’s a frank, raw and blood-pumping exposé’ of a life lived on the edge of sexual decency. At the same time, Ainslie-Turner’s exploits with clients remind readers of just what it means to be human.
I really went to town on the next lookalike and pushed him to the limits, something I really do enjoy partaking in. He looked like another comic actor, but from the 1960s and 1970s this time, a funny little chap called Charlie Drake. He was short and stout with a head slightly larger than suited his body, which was covered in wispy curly red hair. Luckily for me, I had a most delightful two hours of crushing that larger than normal head between my fat, sweaty thighs.
Yes, you have guessed it. Or perhaps you haven’t. He wanted to be suffocated between my legs, and boy, did I do just that. I trapped his head right where he wanted it to be. Then, crossing my legs, I held him in place then proceeded to toss him from one side of the bed to the other, thrashing him around like a beached whale in search of the sea. Don’t worry, readers, I did release him every so often to let him catch his breath just enough, so there would be no passing out. Mind you, if he had passed out, I would’ve just had to shake the little fucker back to life again.
Suddenly, in a fit of madness, a rush which came from nowhere, I pushed his face deeper in between my thighs screaming,
‘Can you breathe, you bastard? Can you fucking breathe now?’ I repeated this action several times during the two-hour session. I got so carried away in the moment, at one point I honestly believed I wanted to suffocate him. The poor bugger couldn’t have shouted out even if he wanted to, and even him clawing at my thighs for air did nothing to deter me either.
The only thing that saved us both in the end was the sheer exhaustion on my part. Finally, I had to release him. My legs were killing me. I just lay there with my legs spread and ‘Charlie’ stretched out in the shape of a starfish gasping for breath. I pulled myself up and looked over at him. His face was shiny with sweat and the colour of dark red wine. I shouted over to him,
‘No good you just lying there. I can’t close my fucking legs.’
He grunted and groaned, trying to manoeuvre himself closer to me. Suddenly, he started to giggle, and, giving out a choking cough, fell back on the bed saying,
‘I can’t, I can’t. I’ve gone all dizzy.’
I looked at him flailing about, gasping and giggling inanely like a demented fat slug stuck in the mud. I screamed over at him,
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re laughing at. You’ve crippled me. I can’t move my fucking legs, you bastard.’ Then the realisation of the situation we were both caught up in rendered us a pair of giggling fools. It took a while for us both to recover, by which time I had managed to get up off the bed after ‘Charlie’ was finally able to close my legs for me. Later, he confessed that what I had done was better than anything he could have imagined. I laughed and said to him,
‘I guess it helps being a mad, mental bitch, then?’
‘You most certainly are,’ came his reply. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go looking for a cure. There isn’t one.’
We were still laughing as I closed the door on him. One sure thing, I won’t forget that session of madness in a hurry. It had brought out a different side to me. Not sure what it was that provoked such a response I just knew it would happen again the first chance I got. Except for the fact that I could hardly walk for two days after … fat old bitch. I thoroughly enjoyed the session.