I’m a seasoned sex worker, but once it went wrong and my client nearly died

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NOW, Lets get back to the story.

I’ve been thinking about the time I went to a private dungeon in the city, and was quickly reminded why I avoid such establishments. The thing is, I nearly killed a man.

I’m not usually one for dungeons. There’s too much equipment, too many things to get wrong and make you feel like an idiot. I really don’t have the spatial awareness for proper domination. Domestic discipline, my specialty, requires only a stern look and a hairbrush.

Proper BDSM is all leg irons, tubes, locks, cages, queening stools, and horse speculums, along with the uneasy realization that an ignorant person like me could do some real damage. Still, it’s a day out.

My client, Henry, who’s in his mid-sixties, knows all about dungeons, having played all over the world, and gave me a guided tour of all the gear, which I promptly forgot and never fully understood anyway.

This one contained a wrestling arena, an enormous array of bondage equipment, and a bedroom for overnight playdates.

This was back in March 2022, and Henry was a client who wanted more extreme BDSM play, although he wouldn’t admit where his interest in being tortured came from.

He’d shown up all excited about a fur-lined hood with two tiny holes for his nostrils, which attached around his neck with a complicated fastening system he couldn’t operate himself.

So, obediently, I’d pushed the thing over his head and buckled it tight around his throat before securing his ankles to the bed and beginning to flog his feet with one hand while checking my emails with the other.

Breath play can be thrilling, but you do need to know what you’re doing. Using just hands, or my bottom on someone’s face, feels more manageable, but hey — what the client wanted, he got.

Moments passed and then came a muffled moan from the bed.

“Actually, could you get this hood off? I’m struggling to breathe a bit.”

“Right!” I said, with an air of cheerful competence. But I couldn’t get the hood off. The fastenings were impossibly tight, and the more I tried, the tighter they got. Henry started to struggle and shout, then, more alarmingly, went quiet.

“I’m just running downstairs for some scissors!” I said, with a confidence I was now far from feeling. I hitched up my pencil skirt, kicked off my heels, and actually ran — and believe me, I never run.

While I searched through the kitchen, I considered my options. I was alone in the building. No one on the street knew what happened at this property, which was exactly how the owners wanted it.

How long can a man live without oxygen, and how on earth had I found myself in this ridiculous position? I could be prosecuted if he died, I thought, like that guy who was mummified during a sex game and whose partners were charged with manslaughter.

Even if he didn’t die, I could face charges for bodily harm — that happened to a friend of mine. God, I thought.

Why were there no scissors? Why did he have to tell me he’d supported that political party all his life? If he survived, he was going to assume this incompetence was deliberate.

While I searched and worried, I heard some groaning from upstairs, which was somewhat reassuring. Ah — scissors, thank God! I ran back up.

He was thrashing on the bed, his hands around his neck.

“Keep still!” I said firmly, and started trying to cut. But the strap was made from solid leather, and the dull blades made almost no impression.

Thankfully, my frantic, squirming fingers did, and entirely by accident, the buckle released. I yanked the hood off his head. We stared at each other, and I realized I was shaking violently from fingers to knees.

He was genuinely fine. I was fine eventually. The two tiny holes were apparently closer to his eyebrows than his nostrils, which explained the unsettling lack of air.

We took ten minutes to calm down before he insisted play begin once more. We even tried the hood again, would you believe, although I insisted the strap not be used.

Of course, I didn’t offer a discount and kept the $550 for the three hours of my time. A few weeks later, he requested another session together, although I kept the scissors handy for that one.