The Black Book of Fetish Escort Antonina Tretjakovs

Antoņina Tretjakovs, the Latvian virtuoso whose fingers coaxed raw passion from grand pianos in Vienna, Milan, and Paris. Her name filled concert halls. Her face adorned culture magazines. But beneath the surface of classical acclaim beat a heart that craved something far more primal.

Her Mayfair apartment was where she composed more than music. It was where she curated her black book—a leather-bound volume of the powerful and perverse. Twenty-one names, each one with influence, prestige, and a hunger for deviance. Only those twenty-one people new that Antonina was the supreme Madam Professor of fetish escorts. Her rules were strict: one meeting every ten days. She chose the location in London. She chose the sexual act. And her word was law.

Play Session 1. The Hunger of Power – Parliament Hill

Lord Hargrave, known in political circles as the Iron Voice of Westminster, was a man feared in Parliament and idolized by interns, but nobody knew of his aching desire to be humiliated by domination escorts. When Antoņina summoned him to Parliament Hill in Hampstead north London at dawn, he became meek and immediately obeyed his escort Mistress.

She arrived just before sunrise, a vision in a tailored beige trench coat with nothing beneath. Her heels clicked softly against the gravel as she approached a wide oak tree atop the hill. There, he waited, dressed plainly in jogging gear, but his eyes burned with anticipation.

She said nothing. Instead, she produced a leather dog collar from her purse and dangled it before him like a treat. Hargrave, stripped of his titles and authority, dropped to his knees and allowed her to fasten the collar around his neck.

“Crawl,” she commanded softly.

He obeyed, crawling after her on all fours, his knees pressing into wet earth, grass staining his trousers. They passed joggers, early morning walkers, and a woman with a pram. Nobody looked twice.

Antoņina brought him to a clearing out of direct view but close enough to civilization that voices echoed nearby. She unbuttoned her coat, revealing her nude body beneath. He whimpered.

“Look, don’t touch,” she said. “You may worship, but only with your mouth.”

He kissed the arch of her foot. Then the inside of her thigh. Each kiss a prayer, To him she was the most beautiful and cruel escort in London. When she finally allowed him to press his lips to her mound, she guided his face with the leash, grinding softly until his cheeks were slick and flushed.

He came in his trousers without ever touching himself. She slapped his cheek lightly, unhooked the collar, and walked away. “Back to the House of Commons, Lord Pet,” she called over her shoulder.

Play Session 2. Silent Notes – Royal Opera House, Back Entrance

Elise Bouchard had conducted orchestras in Rome, Prague, and Berlin. But now she knelt on cold pavement behind London’s Royal Opera House, desperate to please one woman.

Antoņina wore a long black coat that barely concealed the London escorts tight corset beneath. In one hand, she held a metronome. She placed it on the ground between them and set it ticking.

Each tick was a command.

“Undress,” tick.

“Touch yourself,” tick.

“Harder,” tick.

Elise obeyed, slipping her hand between her thighs, her body trembling as the rhythmic sound of the metronome controlled her pace. Antoņina leaned forward and whispered musical notes in her ear.

“A minor,” she purred. Elise moaned.

“D flat.” Elise whimpered.

Every note triggered a memory—the soft swell of a cello, the slap of timpani, the sharp sting of the kinky escort’s gloved fingers on her bare skin. Elise’s legs began to shake.

Antoņina knelt behind her, reached forward, and pinched her nipple as she whispered, “Finale.”

Elise came, gasping into the chilled air. Her forehead pressed against the damp bricks as Antoņina stood, adjusted her coat, and walked away.

Play Session 3. Obey in the Mist – Hyde Park Serpentine

The air around the Serpentine was heavy with dawn fog, thick enough to blur the line between fantasy and reality. Sir Edwin Shawcross waited on a wooden bench, looking out at the grey shimmer of water. Beneath his coat, he wore nothing—just the skin of a man who once commanded courtrooms, now eager to be commanded in to the dark side of BDSM.

Antoņina emerged from the mist like a phantom, her riding boots clicking softly along the gravel. She wore black jodhpurs, a tight cashmere sweater without a bra, and carried a slim riding crop. Her golden hair was tied back, her lipstick a wicked shade of oxblood.

She didn’t greet him. Instead, she circled behind the bench and whispered into his ear, “Knees apart you little cunt.”

He obeyed.

She reached down, her gloved hand sliding between his thighs. He was already hard, desperate, and humiliated. “Good little judge,” she whispered, her voice warm and cruel. “Now confess something vile. One ruling that still makes you feel like a dirty old man.”

Edwin’s lips trembled. He whispered something about a case—two busty escorts, an actor, tabloid evidence, a bribe. She rewarded him with a slow stroke along the length of his shaft.

“No coming until I say.”

She walked in front of him, facing the path where joggers were beginning to emerge from the fog. With the skill and poise of an expert domination escort she lifted one leg onto the bench and pressed the toe of her boot between his legs. “If someone sees, what happens to your pension? Your knighthood?” she teased, moving the crop gently over her own chest.

He gasped. Her boot slid closer, heel teasing the base of his cock.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He came with a muffled grunt, twitching, his face flushed.

Antoņina gave a slow, disappointed sigh. She wiped her boot clean with a silk handkerchief and tossed it into his lap.

“Clean yourself. You’ve just committed professional suicide in the most elegant way possible.”

She vanished into the fog before he could thank her.

Play Session 4. Red Room Reflection – The Shard

Antoņina loved playing games with power, and few were as delicately intoxicating as the ones she reserved for Sir Dominic Wells — a senior civil servant whose cold rationality had shaped years of government policy. In public, he was polished, brilliant, untouchable. But today, he was just a man waiting for instructions from a very expensive VIP escort, legs crossed in a navy suit, seated at a corner table in the restaurant at the top of The Shard.

She arrived ten minutes late, deliberately. Dressed like a discreet fashion editor, her form-fitting black satin dress clung to her with effortless elegance. But the key detail—visible only to him—was the subtle glint of her custom-fitted vibrating plug, hidden deep inside her, controlled by the remote now dropped into his palm.

Antoņina slid into the seat opposite him without a word. Waitstaff moved around them, oblivious. She opened a small leather notebook and began reading a page aloud. It wasn’t a menu—it was a list of policies he had helped pass. For each one she read aloud, she would rest her foot between his legs under the table, pressing softly.

“You remember that immigration clause you helped bury in subsection 17B which affected so many foreign young escorts?” she said calmly, cocking an eyebrow. “Let’s see how honest you can be about what that cost you.”

He turned red. She gave him the first pulse.

The tablecloth hid everything, but his hands trembled slightly as he placed the remote on his lap and adjusted the setting. She moaned—just barely audible—as the vibrations began.

“Only increase it when you confess something shameful,” she said, leaning forward with a predatory smile. “And if I reach the edge too soon, we leave.”

It became a battle of control. He whispered confessions behind his wine glass, his voice shaking.

“I ignored the data from the health board.”

Pulse.

“I fudged the numbers on the social impact report about teen escorts.”

Stronger pulse.

By the time dessert arrived, she was squeezing her thighs together, her body twitching with pleasure that she refused to release.

“I want you to turn it off now,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Leave me soaked. Edged. And dying for more.”

He obeyed the forceful Dominatrix instantly, sweat on his forehead, erection pressed painfully inside his trousers.

She stood without finishing her wine, bending slightly so only he could hear: “You’re not allowed to climax for three days. If you do, I’ll know. And I’ll make your next punishment public.”

Sir Dominic sat there long after she left, visibly aching, surrounded by London’s elite, pretending to still be in control of himself.

Play Session 5. Midnight Strings – Regent’s Park Bandstand

The bandstand stood like a lonely stage under the half-moon, empty and forgotten at this hour. But for Antoņina, it was the perfect performance venue games with cruel escorts—just not for music tonight.

At 12:30 a.m. sharp, she arrived in a flowing black cloak and stiletto heels. Beneath, she wore only sheer lace lingerie, corseted tightly, the material glinting slightly in the moonlight. In one hand, she carried a slim leather riding crop. In the other, a metronome.

Seated on the steps, waiting obediently, was Jasper Halverson—an internationally renowned violinist, who enjoyed all forms of kink especially if it ended with a cum in mouth scenario, recently knighted, currently kneeling in his tuxedo trousers with a violin case resting beside him.

She walked straight past him onto the platform, her heels tapping with rhythmic finality. She set the metronome down on the wooden rail and wound it to a precise tempo.

“Adagio,” she said softly. “Like your last solo in Vienna. But this time, your fingers won’t be on strings.”

She stepped back into the shadows. “Strip from the waist down.”

He obeyed quickly, folding his trousers neatly, cock already stiff in the cool night air. He picked up his violin, placed it under his chin, and took his cue from the metronome’s steady tick.

As he began to play—a soft, aching lament by Ysaÿe—she stepped forward and mounted him, straddling his thigh, her corset tight against his leg. She pressed herself down, beginning to grind slowly in perfect time with the tempo.

“Don’t stop playing,” she whispered, leaning forward, nails grazing the back of his neck.

He played flawlessly, his bow trembling only slightly as she moved against him, building heat with every controlled motion. Each pull of the bow matched her hips. Each note deepened the tension in both their bodies, now he knew why she was the one of the most expensive escorts in London.

She moaned, softly at first, then louder as her rhythm grew more insistent. Her climax came mid-phrase—an exquisite tremor that made her dig her nails into his shoulder and gasp into his ear.

But she didn’t let him stop.

She slid off his thigh, breathless, and whispered, “Now put your instrument down and kneel.”

He lowered the violin, and she handed him the crop. “Discipline yourself. Five lashes. One for every time you looked at your sheet music during rehearsal instead of at me.”

The swish of leather cracked through the night as he struck his own bare thigh, over and over, gritting his teeth.

When it was done, she kissed his cheek like a starlet greeting a fan and walked off the bandstand, the metronome still ticking, the scent of the domination escort still on his leg.

Play Session 6. Behind the Glass – Natural History Museum

The museum was technically closed, but for Dr. Charles Langford—celebrated evolutionary biologist, author, and TED talk regular—a private after-hours visit had been arranged through the back door, no questions asked. He walked past the suspended skeletons and ancient fossils like a man entering a cathedral, his heart pounding harder with every step toward the entomology wing and the promise of time with the best kinky escort in the city.

He found her in the glass corridor housing the preserved insect specimens. Thousands of mounted beetles, butterflies, and exotic arachnids stared at them from behind polished cases. The lighting was dim, clinical, almost voyeuristic. Antoņina stood at the far end of the corridor, facing the wall of glass, a long, floor-length black coat hiding everything but her patent leather heels and the tip of a braided flogger.

She didn’t turn to greet him.

“You're late,” she said flatly.

Dr. Langford cleared his throat nervously. “Only three minutes…”

“That’s enough for a dominant species to go extinct.” She turned now, slowly, revealing her body: a steel-boned leather corset that hugged her waist, sheer mesh thigh-highs, and a subtle chrome chastity key hanging from a necklace around her neck.

He knew exactly what it unlocked—his own cruel little device, which he had worn all week at her command.

“Strip,” she said simply. “And kneel on the cold tile. I want your knees to remember this lesson for days.”

As he obeyed, the tension rippled through his distinguished frame. His erection strained uselessly against the cage. The cruel dominatrix escort walked over to him, placing one heeled foot on the back of his neck.

“You spend your life studying survival, but you still come crawling to me to be undone.”

Then came the challenge: She opened a velvet pouch and removed a delicate lace blindfold and a collar with the tag Property of A.T.. She fastened both, reducing the brilliant scientist to a crawling specimen of lust.

She whispered, “Tell me the Latin name of every creature on the wall behind you.”

He hesitated.

The queen of fetish and fantasy escorts brought the flogger down—softly at first, then harder. The strikes echoed down the corridor like forgotten footsteps.

Each time he got a name wrong, the flogger bit again. The sting, the shame, and the arousal blended until he was trembling, sweat dripping from his temples onto the stone floor.

“Actias luna.”
“Dynastes hercules.”
“Phormictopus cancerides...”

“Closer,” she whispered, lowering her voice to a sultry growl. “You earn your key by impressing me.”

At last, she knelt behind him, pressed her mouth to his ear, and whispered a phrase in Latin that made him shudder.

She unlocked the device and stroked him slowly—methodically—just enough to edge him, never allowing release.

“You'll beg for that,” she murmured, standing up and pulling the key back around her neck. “And when you do, I’ll bring you back here... and make you climax in front of the display labelled Primitive Reproduction Strategies.”

She walked away, the sound of her heels fading into the shadows of ancient life.

Play Session 7. Glove and Gavel – Royal Courts of Justice

At 12:55 p.m., the Royal Courts of Justice stood solemn and imposing, its neo-Gothic façade casting long shadows onto the Strand. The lunchtime crowd of barristers in wigs and robes passed briskly, focused and purposeful. None of them noticed the high class escort in the black pencil skirt and silk blouse seated beneath the stone archway—not just because she looked like she belonged there, but because her presence was designed to be invisible to all but one.

Antoņina adjusted the smooth leather gloves on her hands. Her stilettos were glossy, sharp enough to command but subtle enough not to raise suspicion. She held a slim envelope in her lap. Her target was always punctual.

Ms. Priya Ramesh, a highly decorated barrister and former Crown Court judge, appeared at precisely 1:00 p.m. She looked as she always did—composed, brilliant, powerful. But under her robe, she followed instructions to the letter: no bra, no underwear, and a plug firmly seated in place since 7:30 that morning.

Antoņina stood without a word and walked briskly down a side corridor. Priya followed, heart pounding beneath the surface of her courtroom calm.

They slipped into an unused clerks’ chamber, heavy with the scent of old books and tobacco-polished wood. The thick door closed with a satisfying click.

“Close the blinds,” Antoņina ordered.

Priya obeyed her escort Mistress. When she turned back, Antoņina was seated on the clerk’s desk, legs crossed elegantly, gloved fingers tapping an invisible rhythm against the wood.

“You were cross-examining a corrupt financier this morning,” Antoņina said. “Tell me, how many times did you clench around the plug while speaking in legalese?”

Priya flushed, but kept her chin high. “Seven times,” she said softly.

“Too few,” Antoņina purred. “Your punishment is tailored.”

She motioned her closer, then slid off the desk and pressed Priya’s body against it, flipping the hem of the barrister’s robe up to expose her perfectly shaped arse. The plug gleamed in the dim light.

Antoņina drew a thin paddle from her handbag, each strike calculated. Not brutal, but firm—enough to leave the faintest outline of justice rendered in flesh only highly skilled BDSM escorts could administer a paddle with such accuracy.

“One for every point of misconduct you've ever let slide. And one more... for every fantasy about this moment you had in open court.”

The count rose quickly.

When Priya gasped on the twelfth, Antoņina leaned in, whispering: “Now you’re going to finger yourself, slowly, while reading from your opening statement on the Thatcher vs. Holden case.”

From her handbag, Antoņina produced a printout of the transcript.

Shaking, Priya read aloud, her fingers moving obediently beneath her robe. Her voice quivered but held. When she finally reached her peak—biting her lip to stifle the moan—Antoņina pulled her hand away and sucked her fingers clean.

Then she slipped the envelope into Priya’s bag.

“Inside is a transcript of today’s scene, written in your own court-style voice. You’ll read it tonight in bed. And next time, bring a witness.”

With that, she adjusted her blouse and exited the chamber, heels clicking across the hallowed marble of British justice.

Play Session 8. Mayfair Control – Her Apartment Balcony

Antoņina’s apartment in Mayfair was nothing short of a Domination escorts private theatre for exquisite acts of fetish and control. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the open-plan space, draped with sheer curtains that fluttered in the light summer breeze. But it was the narrow wraparound balcony overlooking the street below that served as the stage for today’s meeting.

The visitor was Julia Morton, a high-profile MP and morning news regular—one of Westminster’s youngest rising stars, known for her sharp tongue and immaculate composure and weakness for menstruating teen escorts with pert bottoms and soiled tampons. To the public, she was all power suits and policy papers. But to Mistress Antoņina, she was something quite different.

At 11:50 a.m., Julia arrived, discreetly dressed in business attire, her long coat brushing her calves. She carried no handbag—everything she needed had already been couriered to her the night before, per Antoņina’s exacting instructions.

Once inside, Julia shed her coat and stood silently. Beneath it, she wore a sheer, blush-pink lingerie set that left little to the imagination, garters clasping to seamed stockings. A red silk ribbon was tied loosely around her neck like a collar.

“Right on time,” the queen of fetish escorts said coolly, stepping out from the kitchen in nothing but a sheer black robe and heels. She walked a slow circle around Julia, inspecting her. “You're not allowed to speak today. You'll express everything through posture, breath, and obedience.”

Julia lowered her gaze immediately.

Antoņina guided her toward the French doors leading to the balcony. Outside, the sun poured down onto the street below, filled with the elegant bustle of midday life—chauffeurs, private shoppers, and wealthy tourists.

“I want them to see something,” she murmured. “But not know exactly what.”

With swift, deliberate motions, Antoņina tied Julia’s wrists behind her back with the silk ribbon. Then she guided her to her knees at the very edge of the balcony.

From the street, Julia would appear to be adjusting her shoe, perhaps praying, perhaps stretching—but in truth, she was kneeling in silent submission, her nipples hard beneath the thin fabric, her mouth parted in shallow anticipation.

Antoņina stood beside her, her hand resting casually on the back of Julia’s head, gently applying pressure to keep her bowed.

“You will remain here for ten minutes,” she whispered. “Completely still. Eyes down. No matter who walks by below—parliament aide, journalist, or lover. The thrill is in the risk, isn’t it?”

Julia nodded, cheeks already flushed.

The wind teased the hem of her lingerie as the seconds ticked by. From above, the pair looked like any well-dressed couple enjoying the midday view. But within, Julia's heart pounded with every distant car horn, every voice that echoed up from the street.

Antoņina leaned over and whispered, “If you twitch even once, I’ll spank you with a hairbrush and make you sit through your next committee meeting with the marks still warm”, the threat from the dominant escort was real.

Julia stayed perfectly still.

After exactly ten minutes, Antoņina untied the ribbon, kissed her gently behind the ear, and whispered: “You're not allowed to touch yourself for forty-eight hours. This tension belongs to me.”

Julia redressed, gathered her coat, and left without a word, her legs trembling and arousal clinging to her like perfume.

Back on the balcony, Antoņina lit a cigarette and watched her disappear into a black car. She smiled to herself.

Control was most delicious when given freely.

Play Session 9. Cultural Interlude – Tate Modern Lift

The Tate Modern’s industrial architecture was always a favourite of Antoņina’s—raw, brutal, and unapologetically public. The perfect setting for a Dominatrix escort to do something wicked.

At 3:03 p.m. sharp, she stepped into the main lift, ascending from the Turbine Hall toward the viewing terrace. The glass-paneled lift offered panoramic views of London—and no privacy at all. That was intentional.

Already inside, waiting with apparent disinterest, stood Sir Lucien Talbot—a globally respected art critic and gallery director, known for his icy intellect and biting reviews. To the art world, he was untouchable. But in Antoņina’s world, he was a man who enjoyed being humiliated by young escorts and today he was hers to play with.

She pressed the emergency stop button halfway up, halting the lift between floors. A soft chime sounded. For the next five minutes, it would be held in place while "technical adjustments" were made.

In those five minutes, Lucien would be ruined—blissfully, willingly.

Antoņina turned to face the mirrored wall, her eyes locking onto his reflection. Slowly, without speaking, she lifted her skirt to her hips. She wasn’t wearing panties. She pressed her bare backside against the cool glass and parted her legs, ever so slightly.

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. He dared not move.

Then she spoke—low and rich, like a cello note in a silent gallery.
“Get on your knees, Sir Lucien. Now.”

He sank to the floor, the carpet burning his knees, the ceiling camera catching only the top of his silver-streaked head. To anyone reviewing footage later, it would seem like a man checking his shoe or having a moment of dizziness.

But Antoņina reached behind and guided him with her fingers.

“Kiss me. There.”

He obeyed instantly, burying his mouth between her thighs, licking with reverence. She leaned into the mirrored wall, moaning softly as the lift hung suspended in silence above the city.

“Faster,” she hissed. “Make me drip on your tie.”

He did. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, nose buried in her scent.

When she came—sharp, sudden, exquisite—she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him deeper, riding every wave until her legs trembled against the cool glass.

She finally stepped away, breathless, straightening her skirt, VIP escorts need to be satisfied and today she certainly was.

Lucien knelt, panting, his face soaked, his erection tenting the front of his expensive trousers.

She tossed him a tissue.

“Clean yourself up. But don’t touch your cock. That belongs to me for the next 48 hours. If you disobey,” she leaned in, pressing a red lipstick kiss to the mirror, “I’ll invite your rival curator to do what you just did—live, on stage, blindfolded.”

The lift resumed with a soft jolt. The doors opened on the top floor. Antoņina stepped out without a backward glance, heels clicking against the concrete.

Lucien remained in the lift, dazed, flushed, and forever devoted.

Epilogue: The Last Note

Mayfair was silent by 2 a.m., save for the occasional hiss of a passing car. Antoņina sat alone at her grand piano, bathed in low amber light, the city spread beneath her windows like an exclusive escort sleeping beside her lover after climax.

She touched the keys softly—not to rehearse, not to impress, but to soothe the afterglow of what she had built.

Nine encounters. Nine masterpieces of control, risk, and submission to the queen of domination escorts. Each client more powerful than the last, and yet each had bent to her will with the desperation of someone starving for surrender. Politicians, professors, military officers, artists—people the world trusted to lead, legislate, create. And they all begged for her.

On the low table beside the piano rested her black leather book, edges worn, spine broken in the best way. Inside, every name was marked with a red dot now—completed. Satisfied. Owned.

She poured a glass of absinthe and sipped it slowly, crossing her legs beneath a silk robe that still carried the scent of lust. Her skin tingled, not from orgasm, but from the power of orchestration—each scene executed with the precision of a perfect crescendo she was the ultimate maestro of fantasy escorts.

This was her music, after all. Not the sonatas she performed for thousands, but the private compositions—written in sweat, restraint, whispered filth, and the threat of exposure.

They all thought they were chosen. They weren’t wrong. But what none of them understood was that Antoņina played for herself. The pleasure, the danger, the control—it was all hers. She was the composer. The maestro. The metronome and the final note.

With a final sip, she closed the black book and tucked it beneath the piano bench.

A new page would be written soon.
And London?
London would always provide fresh players for her next decadent symphony.

OUR EXCLUSIVE SELECTION OF FETISH ESCORTS in LONDON

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