I suppose you could say that I fell into this industry by accident. My nights at the dance club were becoming tedious, my clients more rude and obnoxious and the management seemed to want to encourage the stag parties and the louts. It was a group of drunken men from Birmingham who started me off on this quite incredible journey. One man had openly abused me from the start of my routine as his mates jeered me and encouraged him to give me more of the same. I remember swearing at him and making a comment about his mouth being bigger than his dick. It was a tense moment as I waited for him to react. He didn’t… instead he slinked back in his chair and I went into overdrive with my wise cracks and gestures and suddenly I had turned it around. Now it was my tormentor who his mates rounded on as they laughed and goaded and teased him as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.
Twenty minutes after my show he approached me at the bar and asked for a private performance. I thought he was kidding at first, I thought he was joking as he said he wanted nothing more than to be abused in the privacy of a booth. He was almost salivating as he told me I should demand money from him as I did. And so I did, I called him the vilest names under the sun as I stripped his wallet bare and he complied with every demand like a frightened schoolboy in the headmaster’s office.
I confess I hardly slept a wink that night, wondering exactly what it was I had stumbled on. Later that week he was back for more as I raped his wallet of nearly three hundred pounds. He told me his fetish was more common than I thought and that he spoke regularly with like-minded individuals in chat rooms and on websites around the world.
So I researched ‘wallet rape’ and checked out the forums and wondered if it were possible to find more clients and to make enough money to get me out of the seedy environment I was getting so tired of.
And so began my incredible journey, a journey that would earn me nearly two hundred thousand pounds in the first twelve months and bring me into contact with men who were ready and willing to hand me money because I simply demanded it of them. No sexual contact and I didn’t even have to take my clothes off. And yet I knew it was never going to be easy, I had been thrown over to the dark side where men opened up to me and begged me to pander to their every need. The fetish takes many forms and some of them may make you physically sick, there are some things I simply wouldn’t do no matter how much money was on offer. But I was more than happy to take my piggy down the high street while I abused him in front of the embarrassed shop assistants while I maxed out his credit cards, or take part in the charade of a lunch date while I abused the client in front of the waiters and astonished diners telling him and everyone within earshot about how my new lover was young and handsome and athletic and so much better than him in between the sheets.
The clients would always thank me profusely and then hand over several hundred pounds, some would disappear into the nearest toilet to masturbate, such was the height of their arousal and just occasionally I would entertain a client with a request so bizarre you would simply not believe it. There’s my man in America who Skype’s me at a pre-arranged time and sitting alongside him is a plate of sandwiches. His request is a simple one, I order him to eat them. Nothing more, nothing less, but I make him eat them until he vomits. That’s what he gets off on. Don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you but believe me he gets off on it and then waits a week or so before he calls again and asks for a repeat performance. There’s my custard pie client, naked as the day he was born with 200 shaving foam custard pies prepared for my arrival, along with an envelope containing a thousand pounds. I enter the room and start flinging them at him. It takes him no more than fifteen minutes to climax and then I order him to clean up his filthy mess and leave.
It’s a strange world that I’ve stumbled into with no two days the same. I’ve bared my soul in this book, no holds barred. I’ll tell you about my premium rate ‘Dom Line’ where I abuse clients over the telephone while shopping in Tesco or filling up my car at the local gas station and I’ll describe the man who wants me to stamp on his feet with my high heels. It takes all sorts as the saying goes and I think I’ve met just about all of them. Sometimes I stand back and gasp because although I’m very much desensitized after several years’ activity, at least two or three times a month someone drops me an email that takes my breath away. Those emails are in the book too, some printed word for word, warts and all. If you do decide to take this book from your local bookshelf you’d better be prepared to be shocked but I promise you one thing, when you’ve finished, you will have changed your opinion of the creature known as man.