Mistress Called

Early in my escorting career, I received a phone call that imprinted itself onto my memory like a trace of lipstick onto a wine glass. It came from a woman. Her voice was husky and mature, with a practised authority that I would later understand had the power to make me blush even over the receiver. She told me she was in her 50s, looking for a female companion.

“Do you see women?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” I said, trying to mask my surprise. It was true that I had a burgeoning, albeit untested bisexuality, and the idea of exploring it made my stomach flutter. I had even ticked a small, tentative checkbox on my profile for "sees women", although I hadn’t expected to be called on it so soon.

“Good. I’ve booked a suite at the W for Saturday. Are you available?”

I would have been, even if I wasn’t. “Yes,” I responded.

“The whole night?”

“Yes,” I said again, though the phrase felt weighty in my mouth, as if I were agreeing to more than just my time.

She laid out the rules like she was preparing a game of chess. She wanted six hours, she said briskly: drinks at the bar, then upstairs to her suite, then dinner at Scott’s. Did I know it? “Yes,” I lied, picturing somewhere glossy and unreachable, the kind of place where they take your coat and you feel guilty for having one.

“You do own seamed stockings, don't you?” she asked, as if it were as obvious as owning a coat.

“Yes.” Another lie. All I had were the cheap lace-tops from Marks & Spencer, the kind that already had runs by the time you got them home. Far from the vintage glamour she seemed to require, but the tone in her voice made me want to rise to the occasion.

“Good. Save this number as Mistress. That’s how you’ll address me going forward. When I call you tomorrow, I expect you to be wearing your stockings.”

She hung up before I could respond, leaving the word Mistress vibrating in the air between us. My head was spinning. Who the hell was this woman? And who was this meek person inhabiting my body, responding to her?! I had rules, systems, protocols: no bookings without deposits, no unpaid back-and-forth, no letting clients dictate the terms. My work was a fortress I’d built for myself, designed to keep my mind and body safe and separate from theirs, no matter how intimate the service. And yet her dominance was intoxicating, as though she’d reached through the line, bared her teeth, and dared me to refuse her. My nipples hardened at the thought. I slid a hand down my panties and confirmed what I already knew: my wetness betrayed me.

The next day, her call came promptly at noon. I scrambled to answer, trying to attach my garter belt while balancing my phone on my shoulder.

“Hello… Mistress,” I said, already flustered.

“Are you wearing your stockings?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

I froze. “How?”

She directed me, her tone crisp and uncompromising: pull on the straps of your garter belt, let the elastic thwack against your skin. I obeyed. She wasn’t satisfied. “Now, run your fingers up and down the nylon. Slowly.” She wanted to hear the friction. I did as she asked, flushed and humiliated as I was enthralled.

“That’s a good girl,” she purred, and my heart jumped to my throat. Then she hung up.

Good girl. Her words buzzed in my chest like a secret I had only just uncovered. She seemed to see right through me, into parts of myself I hadn’t yet explored, articulating desires I hadn’t named but instantly recognised. I was spinning, and she was my axis.

I ordered the proper seamed stockings online that day—from a website called The Big Bloomers Company, the only place I could find that carried seamed stockings in my size. I watched the shipping confirmation like a lovesick teenager waiting for a text. By the time her next call came—two days later—I had taken to wearing the stockings at home, sitting on my bed, imagining what she might command of me next.

When she called, she painted vivid pictures of her life and her plans for me. She told me she lived in the countryside, her house filled with dark panelled wood and heavy drapes. She'd worked in finance. No kids. Enjoying her early retirement in solitude and luxury. She described how she had broken in other girls like me: chubby, young, eager to please. She had a type. I was spellbound, flushed, completely and irrevocably wet. Although she never once described her appearance to me, I could picture her perfectly: mid-length bleach blonde hair, sharp red lipstick, reading glasses perched on her nose, and starchy white shirts undone just enough to reveal a wrinkled, powerful cleavage. She promised me a collar. Leather. To symbolise her ownership. Discretion was important, of course—she would hide it beneath a silk Hermes scarf when we dined at Scott’s.

I didn’t question her commands; I wanted them, needed them. She was the archetype of my unspoken fantasies: a sugar mommy Mistress who could give me everything I craved but couldn’t articulate. With her, I unearthed long-buried desires. She could make me squirm with just the thought of her gaze, her approval, her disapproval.

By Saturday, the giddy anticipation reached a fever pitch. I texted her at noon to confirm. No reply. Then at 3 p.m. Still nothing. At 5 p.m., I called.

“The number you have dialled has not been recognised.”

It was like a slap. She had blocked me.

I’ll never know the truth about Mistress. Maybe she was a bored housewife amusing herself with a new escort’s naivety. Maybe she was someone else entirely. At best, she wasted my time. At worst, she manipulated me, knowing exactly how much power she held over me. I yearned for her approval, her collar, her control—even at the expense of my own boundaries. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret it. She opened doors I hadn’t dared to knock on, awakening parts of my sexuality I didn’t even know existed. The ritual of the stockings—the fastening, the friction, the soft whisper of nylon against skin—became its own form of submission, an act of devotion to her even in her absence. Even as I suspected she might not be real, I wanted her to be. I ignored the cacophony of alarm bells and the hoard of red flags for the faint chance she might be. Maybe that makes me complicit, maybe it makes me just as twisted as she was. She was using me, yes—but I was playing along for my own ends.

Mistress, if you’re reading this: call me.

“Nylon Dreams” — a film by Erika Lust

Afterword

If this story stirred something in you... the stockings, the submission, the soft cruelty of it all, you might enjoy Nylon Dreams, an erotic short I made with Erika Lust Studios last year. It's all silk seams, knowing glances, and quiet power games. Shooting it felt like exorcising a memory—or maybe conjuring a ghost.

You can watch it here Let it linger.