I was paid £22,000 to stay with a complete stranger for a week
A man emailed last month to tell me how, despite being a successful businessman, he behaved like a brat.
He was convinced, he added, that he would benefit from a whole week's detention in my study. I'd confiscate his phone for the week, stop him drinking, using cocaine and smoking; make him write lines, spank him, and force him to stand him in the corner.
'You are my last hope,' he wrote. 'Money is no object. Can I call you? I'll pay!'
I yawned. Well, telly was rubbish, as usual, so I thought why not earn some quick cash in return for a chat. I sent him my number, bank details and a request for £50. Two minutes later £100 plopped into my account. Ooh, lovely. Then my phone rang.
'Mistress, thank you for agreeing to speak with me,' the man said to me in his thick East European accent. 'You agree I need punishing and a whole new way of life?'
I replied that in principle it was a yes from me – but I wasn't sure I could manage a whole week.
'But I need it so much,' he pleaded. 'Are you busy in April?'
I wasn't, but still suggested we both sleep on it. If he really wanted it to happened we would need to think some more about how it would work – such as where he would stay, what we should do, what I would charge.
The man agreed with me and hung up, leaving me £100 richer for four minutes of 'work'. Feeling pretty chuffed with myself, I assumed he'd soon sober up and I'd never hear from him again.
However, the next morning I woke to find £22,000 had arrived in my bank account.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was still there, transferred from my new Polish friend, Pawel (as I learned via the bank transfer), a few hours earlier. In all honestly, if he'd gotten back in touch, I was going to suggest £1500 would be an acceptable fee – so thank goodness I kept quiet.
I messaged Pawel, trying to play it cool. 'Safely received. Thank you so much.'
'Thank you Mistress!' he quickly replied and started sending me places we could stay, such as stately homes; palaces with swimming pools and hot tubs. His idea of detention was quite different from mine. Still, I was hardly about to argue.
Although my greedy self was ecstatic, sensible me started to panic. How had I let myself get into a situation where I'd be spending a week with a man I didn't know?
Pawel hadn't really given me any choice, which was a definite red flag. If he'd offered £200 I'd have turned him down, but the enormous £ signs were blinding. In the end I decided to quit whining and invested a fiver of my £22k in a bottle of pepper spray.
A couple of week's later we met at a fellow domme's house. I'd be filming for a few hours after his plane landed, so she agreed to supervise the first few hours of his week long detention. 'He's very sweet,' Miss Iceni messaged me. 'I've spanked him gently, since he's got a week of this ahead…'
This was a huge relief. Pawel, a self-made billionaire, had been vague about his expectations, so I'd asked a few friends to act as safety buddies, who constantly messaged me. Eventually, I had to ignore them because, for £3000 a day, you can't be on your phone half the time.
Thankfully, Miss Iceni was right. He was charming, if shy. Then he explained he'd always wanted a long detention 'like in your films'. Baffled, I racked my brain, desperate to figure out what he was referring to. Then I remembered decades ago I'd shot a series featuring three girls who'd behaved so badly they had to spend a week in their headmistress's home, writing lines, getting their mouths soaped, being spanked.
We had booked a West London holiday rental, so we could be close to all the action. And, as is often the case in Melissa world, the week was much more innocent, yet totally bizarre, than anyone would believe.
I spanked Pawel a bit, but he wasn't really into it. He complained it hurt, and suggested we go to the pub instead. I love a pub, and 168 hours of discipline sounded boring and ridiculous, so I cheerfully agreed and as we chatted over pints, he told me he struggled to find straightforward, trustworthy pals because they want him for his money.
A cab got us back to our home for the week at 1.30am. Pawel asked the driver to wait while he collected cash before driving us to a casino. 'No no no,' I said, with uncharacteristic firmness. 'Bed!'
The next day I rose at 7am, head grumbling. He was snoring still. Marvellous. Coffee, shower, make up, answer emails, more coffee. Still he snored. Toast, then. Maybe a pecan slice.
We'd done a big shop and the fridge groaned. I started to feel vastly better. Now what?
I grazed in the the sunshine with a book, periodically scampering in to check he was still asleep. Given what I'd been paid it felt a bit rum to be spending my morning reading and eating cake. So I took a few pouty selfies; added to my Insta story; updated Onlyfans.
Still Pawel snored. He sounded like a threshing machine. Coffee again. Finished my book. Started another. Wrote about my idiotic week to date. Hmm. It was noon now. Maybe I should wake him? But he'd told me how hard he worked, how much he needed a rest…
At 3pm I started to panic. I messaged Miss Iceni, who was meant to be joining us for dinner and a show, to ask advice.
'Maybe you should pop your head round the door?' she suggested. 'He might have gone on a binge and be playing a tape of himself snoring to fool you. Make sure he hasn't stuffed the bed with pillows. Give it a good prod.'
The previous evening Pawel had already escaped my grasp to give a stranger £10 for a cigarette, so that didn't sound totally improbable. And I had no better plan. I stole upstairs to open his bedroom door. No, it was definitely him making that racket. The room stank.
He looked a little blue about the lips. Oh god, oh god . Don't let him die. What would I tell the police?
I could hear it already: 'Why, Miss, is there a dead man in this house? What's his name? I can't write NaughtyBoy69 on the incident form now, can I Miss, be reasonable.'
No. If he went to meet his maker I decided I'd leave an anonymous apologetic note to the cleaner and scarper.
Finally, at 3.26pm Pawel scampered down the stairs. 'Sorry, Miss – have I missed breakfast?'
The week passed like this. He continued to sleep for an average of fifteen hours a day. He liked shopping. He wanted to take me to all the most expensive shops in London and buy me anything I wanted. I do not like shopping, and I do not want anything, except not to be shopping. He gazed at me in wonder as I solidly refused offers of jewellery, perfume, shoes.
Pawel continued to suggest we go to the casino where he'd give me £2000 so I could try my beginner's luck. but I didn't want that either. I don't find wasting money amusing.
He wanted to buy every type of Haribo, every brand of biscuit and sugary cereal, and had to be forcibly restrained. It was like babysitting a 6ft billionaire toddler. Instead I insisted we go for walks and feed the pigeons. More Trending
When Pawel asked what was the best restaurant in London, I told him it was unquestionably Wetherspoons. He loved it. He preferred his food plain. He'd always hated chowing down a froth of this and a mist of that.
I genuinely liked Pawel, felt for him, enjoyed our week together and once we parted, I knew I was looking forward to our next week-long appointment. Not only for the massive wad of cash, but because he's good fun. There's even been talk of me visiting him in Poland.
You imagine the rich have it easy, and in many ways they do. But Pawel taught me that an excess of wealth does leave you lonely and innocent. He had never heard the word no and had never learnt the concept of enough .
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I'm proud to say that just in the space of a week I managed to remedy that.
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