I have a regular client, The Butler.
That’s what I call him anyway. He emailed two years ago asking to spend a weekend cleaning my house, while wearing a servant’s uniform and a chastity belt underneath.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘why not?’ He’d pay well and my house was a mess, so it felt like a bit of a no-brainer. Plus, he was coming all the way from New York, so he must really want to.
Yet when he rang my doorbell that sunny morning in March after his seven hour flight, I still wasn’t sure what we’d actually do.
Usually a client would want to see me in stockings and heels, but this time I was wearing whatever I pleased. And while I’d normally sit new punters down and make them tea while we plan our session, it certainly didn’t happen this time.
Being my servant he had to stand in my presence. As he did, a dreamy look spread across his face. Next up, the rules: he calls me Madam; I use his surname. He waits on me and my guests but eats and drinks only what, and when, I say.
Then I set the task: work the whole weekend – from my 7am coffee in bed, to 11pm, ensuring the doors were locked, putting the cat out, and turning out the lights – until I’m satisfied.
And so The Butler scrubbed my bathroom for ten hours, fortified by just bread and margarine. Then he spent two more hours in his room while I shagged my husband next door, making sure he heard.
I couldn’t help but feel that perhaps I should do more for him, so my friends and I caned him – a common request from my other clients, and I wanted to give him some attention. But he took it unenthusiastically, more worried about the marks that might be left on his skin.
Afterwards, back into his chastity belt and then into his tail coat, wing collar and waistcoat, and on to the ironing – which he clearly adored.
I’m used to new customers asking: ‘What will you do to me?’, so with The Butler, I’ll admit I was almost at a loss as to what to do with him.
Worried he might be bored by all the cleaning I told him about my other clients that week: an adult baby, a watersports enthusiast, a balloon lover, alongside my usual collection of naughty schoolboys.
He told me politely other people’s fetishes were inexplicable. Only his own made sense. ‘Fine’, I thought, ‘scrub my skirting boards once more while I ignore you then’.
I was dreading debriefing him on his last morning, feeling that I must have failed because I couldn’t understand how being denied all pleasure was erotic for him. But a big, goofy grin spread across his chops. He’d loved it. All of it. It was a dream come true.
Although I’ve seen a lot, The Butler, who’s in his mid 50s, was a mystery to me. But not to himself. Unlike most of my clients he’s actually thought about his fetishes.
He was born with a submissive streak and formed his kink in his schooldays – although he doesn’t blame pretty teachers, his mother or any of the usual suspects for making him this way.
Teachers in dresses and heels told him to wear his uniform and respect and obey them, so he did. They punished his failures by stopping him having fun, so he made that fun by weaving an erotic narrative in which women loved him for submitting and demanded his chastity.
He went to a therapist once. She asked him how he felt being so submissive. Happy, he told her. Loved. Included. And childlike. But not in an adult baby sort of way.
His alter ego is told what to wear, eat, drink and do: he’s child-like, but not a child. He’s a servant.
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She did it all for the reasonable sum of £1,000 and even had spectators come and watch.
He’s happily married, has made money but won’t reveal how, has hobbies, and friends who think him normal. No one knows the whole truth except the therapist. And me.
After his first visit to my home he asked if we could do it again.
Let me think… He’s polite and unobtrusive. Coffee and martinis appear from nowhere, while dirty dishes disappear. My bathroom sparkles, my windows are cleaner than ever and wads of fifties fill my handbag. Why wouldn’t I let him return?
Well, as accustomed as I am to cos-playing as middle class, being a lady of leisure for 72 hours feels awkward and unnatural. Usually I only pretend to be something I’m not for an hour, after which I need to lie down.
His presence in my house also made my husband uncomfortable. And, I’ll be honest, I’m still unsure what the servant is getting from this. He’s explained it to me many times, and while I understand the words well enough, I can’t connect with them emotionally.
Given this has been his dream for fifty years, and he’s paying a flipping fortune for it – £1,500 to be exact – I wanted to get it right. But I couldn’t do that unless I understood what right looked like.
So together we hatched a Plan B. Now, The Butler rents a flat in London, a big double bed for me and a cramped single for him. He buys theatre tickets for my friends and me, the best seats at the best shows – I’m going to see Hamilton next month! He joins us, but sits in the row behind.
We visit other friends, me travelling first class and him at the back of the train. On one trip, he cleaned my friend’s garden shed while she and I filmed porn. I think the shed pleased her more than the film.
I’m still learning my part, but it seems it’s all win-win for him. If I’m stricter than he expects, he’s thrilled. If I’m more indulgent, he’s comically grateful. The more I surprise him, the happier he is.
His fantasy world is delightfully open-ended. Whatever I demand, cocktails, theatre tickets or housework, he spins into a new fetish. Seeing how much I enjoy it, he’s even learned to love my leather tawse on his hands.
I’ve also extended his chastity beyond our meetings. He emails me each evening asking permission to masturbate. Mostly I say no. It won’t kill him to wait a week, or three. It’s all on the honour system, but I trust him. They say that sex happens as much in the head as in the genitals, but for The Butler it’s 100% upstairs.
He’s eroticised being denied all the luxuries he loves. He couldn’t be more different from me. Swear off booze? Go weeks without orgasms? I’d rather die.
This is sex work without the sex – for him, anyway. And indeed, without much work from me, although he’s a client who has changed my outlook.
I now see that we make performance art together. On busy London streets, in shops, at the theatre, people see us dressing and acting our parts.
I’m growing into my role. I feel like a lady with staff. I order drinks without wondering whether he’d like one. I automatically hand him my coat and shopping bags and step through doors he holds.
And you know what? I feel fine about it.
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