My cousin Isabelle lives in London. She works as a model and, on the weekends, as a sex therapist.
She's been my secret sexual heroine for years.
We'd only ever met twice in person but we'd kept up frequent online messages and the occasional hand-written letter.
That all changed this past summer -- the season when I finally got to spend extended and long-awaited time with her -- time that allowed me to gain exposure to her exotic, intriguing, and sensual inner world.
Like many girls I've known, my sexual journey didn't begin well and was littered with brief, unfulfilling sexual antics with many rude boys. After a time, I made a pact to protect myself and to learn everything and anything that could put me in control when it came to intimacy. For some reason, as I took this personal vow, I immediately thought of Isabelle.
She's only three years older but she's always had a sophisticated style and seemed light years ahead of boys our age.
This was the summer I turned 19 and I felt it needed to be special. I'd been saving up for more than a year, and when my mother finally agreed to let me spend it abroad, I knew I needed to travel to London and spend time with Isabelle.
I wanted the proper sexual guidance and felt strongly that she'd know just what to say, and perhaps even what I should do.
When I landed, she'd arranged to have me picked up at the airport, and after a speedy check-in at the hotel, I was whisked to a sidewalk café so we could have a proper introduction and get fabulously reacquainted.
From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I'd made the right decision. She was even more beautiful and worldly than I remembered.
"I'm not actually a sex therapist," she confessed within minutes of our first lunch together.
"But in your messages -- I've told everyone about you."
"Yes, it's true," she said, "I do offer a kind of therapy, one might say, but that's not exactly the whole of it."
"There's also your modeling. I've been following you for some time," I informed her as I attempted to keep my eagerness under control.
"Yes, I do model," she continued, "and it pays quite well, but the real money comes on the nights when playing out my dream vocation."
"And what's that?" I asked, more than willing to learn as much as possible.
Isabelle gestured for me to lean close across the table while she looked around the light lunch crowd.
"What did you tell your mother before making this trip?" she asked.
"I only told her that I needed to see the world before the world passed me by," I admitted to her; it was mostly true.
"And what are you really hoping to see?"
"Your world," I said boldly and honestly.
"I'm an Executive Mistress," she whispered, the gleam in her eyes brighter than the daylight dancing inside my water glass.
"A what?" I begged.
"A dominatrix," she told me with great pride, "and I school naughty gentlemen in the fine art of sexual submission and obedience."
I was speechless. I knew Isabelle was cultured and sophisticated, but my small-town upbringing hadn't prepared me for the revelations she was offering. My cousin was the most enticing person I knew and she'd just given me the keys to my own secret sensual desires.
"Are you really? And these men -- they pay you to mistreat them?"
"Not at all," she replied. "I treat them to the very things their inner beast wants and needs. And I do it all from a place of power. I love it."
I was desperate to know more and riddled her with questions, attempting carelessly to conceal my physical desires and arousal. I could feel a low sense of burning within myself but didn't know how to control it.
As I listened, I played with my food and tried to act casually as she went into detail about the true nature of her life.
But Isabelle saw through me in an instant and suggested that I too was in need of exploring my power. There was an undeniable connection between the two of us, and no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was immensely sexually drawn to her.
She said she suspected the real reason I'd asked to come visit was that I was on the verge of my own sexual awakening. She told me the look of anticipation in my eyes reminded her of herself at my age.
The more she revealed, the more engrossed I became.
She told me of a client with a voyeur fantasy -- how he longed to be controlled while a young woman watched -- and encouraged me to join in their next session.
The very idea of it excited me more than anything I'd known, but I was too embarrassed to confess I'd gotten wet thinking of it. Just hearing stories of her secret life filled me with such longing. My body was coming alive in such a short time so I accepted the invitation before my mind had the chance to say no.
In two days, I was introduced to the world of pleasurable sexual dominance.
Isabelle's playroom, as she called it, was a sea of red and black; scented candles provided the only light in her otherwise dark arena. In my wildest fantasies, I'd never imagined such a place even existed.
The room was filled with flowing silks, long mirrors, restraints of assorted types, and a lone chain dangling from the ceiling mid-center.
I was elated as she guided me through, explaining each object, and expressing the rules of her house. Limb by limb, I began to feel my body energize, my imagination filling with thoughts I'd barely allowed myself to consider just days before.
As we walked, and as I listened to Isabelle explain how her secret world operated, a tingling overcame me as my arousal began to truly stir for the first time in my young life.
The sudden impulse to touch and be touched by Isabelle was taking over.
Before entering her private chamber, Isabelle told me she wanted me to be fully immersed in the experience. And when she asked if I was truly ready, I knew my eyes gave me away before I even had the chance to agree.
She had taken me shopping the day prior, and as we prepared for her client session, she personally dressed me.
I was fitted in a short, plaid skirt with white stockings, black heels, and a plush, red bra that pushed my breasts forward in a way that excited even me when I saw them. Over the bra, I wore a sheer, short-sleeve blouse that Isabelle made sure was buttoned low enough to expose the top of the bra.
As she moved about and made the proper adjustments, my body began to react to her touch. I was uncomfortable at first; she was my cousin, and the very idea that she alone was exciting me like never before was almost too much to bear.
I tried dismissing my reactions and made no point to let on how exciting it was to have all her attention, but something inside me wished it to never stop.
No one had ever been so attentive to my needs or my body, and the sensations it created inside were like none I'd been exposed to. Part of me was ashamed, but the more her hands moved across the outfit, the more I wanted.
With my attire properly adjusted, she placed me in a dark corner facing the door and prepared to usher in her client.
"Now remember," she reminded me, "not a word. You can move about as much or as little as you like, but don't let him hear your voice."
As she said it, she made one final modification to unbutton my blouse even more; the feel of her fingertips on the material pressed straight through to my breasts.
She blew me a kiss and disappeared into the next room.
We'd gone over how her sessions worked, but I had no real idea what to expect. And yet it didn't seem to matter, the exquisite sensations running through my body, down into my thighs, were beyond enticing.
I placed my hand onto the bra where Isabelle's fingers had just been. Her warmth was still present on the fabric.
