Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story by Mistress Miranda Page A
Authors: Mistress Miranda
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he was here, honest… he was just wearing his pants.’
‘What colour pants did he have on?’ asked his wife.
‘Black… he was wearing black pants and nothing else at all.’
‘Well, that’s odd because he doesn’t have any black pants anyway. You must have been dreaming. You’ve let your imagination run away with you. It’s naughty to say such things… Now let’s say no more about it and get you all back to sleep.’
I was pretty sure that his wife believed me about what had happened but had decided to protect her own family, whatever the truth of the matter. Then the guy’s daughter also joined in the attack. ‘It’s all that Tom Cruise stuff, isn’t it?’ she declared. ‘We’ve been talking about kissing him and then you must have dreamed it and blamed my dad!’
‘No… I’m telling you, I’m telling you… he was in the room and looking at me.’
‘Well my dad wouldn’t do that. And we were here on either side of you and I didn’t feel anything.’
And that was that. I was left, basically, accused of being a liar and nothing more was mentioned about the incident. I knew I hadn’t imagined what had happened but, in the face of such united family resistance, I had no way of proving it. My last thought as I finally drifted back to sleep was that it had been dark in the room and perhaps those pants had been blue, not black.
That was the end of my summer trips to stay with my friend. Although I had spent lots of time there in the past I never stayed in that house again. Nobody said a word about the covers that had moved in the night-time, the incident was never mentioned in any way, but I was never invited again. I wanted to tell my grandmother about it but I thought, ‘his wife doesn’t believe me, his daughters don’t believe me, why should anyone else believe me?’ Not long afterwards, however, the next time I saw my biological mother, I told her the story of what had happened and why I was no longer staying with my friend. I was still angry and upset that nobody had done anything about it.
‘I believe you Miranda,’ my mother said, ‘but don’t tell yourgrandmother, she won’t understand how anyone could do that and it will upset her dreadfully.’
My mother said that my story had not come as a surprise: ‘I know the family and I know him, he’s a creep and he’s tried it on with women before. I know one woman who was pinned up against the wall in their kitchen and had to fight him off.’
It was yet a further shock to me that she could have been so naïve. I was shocked that my mother had never warned me of the dangers I could face, even though she knew some of that family’s history and that I had stayed there often in the past.
Looking back now at what happened, I think my fears of rape and sexual assault were probably an over-reaction. Knowing men better as I do now, I guess that the guy was little more than a frustrated voyeur and that he would have been unlikely to do more than look whilst two other girls slept in the same bed and his wife was next door. But it was hardly conducive to making me trust the adults in my life. Not long afterwards I was to lose my virginity to another predatory adult – in fact to two predatory adults, twice my age, in the same sexual adventure… on the same afternoon.
CHAPTER 7
SEX EDUCATION
I t is perhaps unsurprising that I never received any form of sex education, or information about my own sexual development, from my grandparents because, although I did not realise it at the time, they were of a different, older generation who found it deeply embarrassing to talk about sex in any shape or form. In our house, if anything remotely sexual ever came on the television, there would be a muttered word or two such as, ‘We don’t want this nonsense, do we?’ and channels would be switched as fast as my granddad could find the remote control. That meant that I was fast approaching my teenage years with little more than playground gossip to prepare
‘What colour pants did he have on?’ asked his wife.
‘Black… he was wearing black pants and nothing else at all.’
‘Well, that’s odd because he doesn’t have any black pants anyway. You must have been dreaming. You’ve let your imagination run away with you. It’s naughty to say such things… Now let’s say no more about it and get you all back to sleep.’
I was pretty sure that his wife believed me about what had happened but had decided to protect her own family, whatever the truth of the matter. Then the guy’s daughter also joined in the attack. ‘It’s all that Tom Cruise stuff, isn’t it?’ she declared. ‘We’ve been talking about kissing him and then you must have dreamed it and blamed my dad!’
‘No… I’m telling you, I’m telling you… he was in the room and looking at me.’
‘Well my dad wouldn’t do that. And we were here on either side of you and I didn’t feel anything.’
And that was that. I was left, basically, accused of being a liar and nothing more was mentioned about the incident. I knew I hadn’t imagined what had happened but, in the face of such united family resistance, I had no way of proving it. My last thought as I finally drifted back to sleep was that it had been dark in the room and perhaps those pants had been blue, not black.
That was the end of my summer trips to stay with my friend. Although I had spent lots of time there in the past I never stayed in that house again. Nobody said a word about the covers that had moved in the night-time, the incident was never mentioned in any way, but I was never invited again. I wanted to tell my grandmother about it but I thought, ‘his wife doesn’t believe me, his daughters don’t believe me, why should anyone else believe me?’ Not long afterwards, however, the next time I saw my biological mother, I told her the story of what had happened and why I was no longer staying with my friend. I was still angry and upset that nobody had done anything about it.
‘I believe you Miranda,’ my mother said, ‘but don’t tell yourgrandmother, she won’t understand how anyone could do that and it will upset her dreadfully.’
My mother said that my story had not come as a surprise: ‘I know the family and I know him, he’s a creep and he’s tried it on with women before. I know one woman who was pinned up against the wall in their kitchen and had to fight him off.’
It was yet a further shock to me that she could have been so naïve. I was shocked that my mother had never warned me of the dangers I could face, even though she knew some of that family’s history and that I had stayed there often in the past.
Looking back now at what happened, I think my fears of rape and sexual assault were probably an over-reaction. Knowing men better as I do now, I guess that the guy was little more than a frustrated voyeur and that he would have been unlikely to do more than look whilst two other girls slept in the same bed and his wife was next door. But it was hardly conducive to making me trust the adults in my life. Not long afterwards I was to lose my virginity to another predatory adult – in fact to two predatory adults, twice my age, in the same sexual adventure… on the same afternoon.
CHAPTER 7
SEX EDUCATION
I t is perhaps unsurprising that I never received any form of sex education, or information about my own sexual development, from my grandparents because, although I did not realise it at the time, they were of a different, older generation who found it deeply embarrassing to talk about sex in any shape or form. In our house, if anything remotely sexual ever came on the television, there would be a muttered word or two such as, ‘We don’t want this nonsense, do we?’ and channels would be switched as fast as my granddad could find the remote control. That meant that I was fast approaching my teenage years with little more than playground gossip to prepare
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