Hello friends! I've spent the last week editing my manuscript to get it down to under 105,000 words. I wasn't sure how hard this would be, but it turns out that by deleting every instance of my writing "to be fair to him/them/her" before describing someone's egregious behaviour, it was fairly easy. I also deleted approximately 1,000 instances of the word 'wonderful' and similar hyperbole. Only two paragraphs, and one chapter have been eradicated, and I'm sharing that chapter, the book's original epilogue, with you here. 

I'm ousting it in favour of a new one, for the following reasons. Firstly, It's old. It was one of the first chapters I wrote, right at the beginning of my book journey, and I'm talking about events and concerns from 4 years ago. Secondly, my editor warned me that because I've written what I consider to be a feminist book, I'm likely to attract critical reviews by the feminsts who don't like sex work. So it felt like playing into their hands, to have an epilogue which is about a man (hi Hywel!) making me feel really good. Though I wrote the truth, I think I can do a better job now of writing something that's more personal to me, rather than about us, as a couple. Is that more feminist? IDK, but I'll give it a go.  And thirdly, I read what a consider to be an absolutely hideous memoir by another adult model, and she'd included a forward written by someone else, which gushed about what an amazing celebrity couple the author and her partner were. I don't think this is how my original epilogue comes across, but I don't like the idea of potentially ending my book with an invitation for other people to look at my relationship as the perfect romantic ideal, and to feel bad about their own relationship or lack thereof. Life's more complicated than that and I don't want to make anyone think we're in some kind of unachievable BDSM fairytale.

So I'm going to write something more current and a bit more thoughtful, but I thought you might like to see the original. Content warning; there's sex and BDSM in it. So if you've pledged or pre-ordered my book and are intending to skip those bits (hello dear family!) you might want to give this a miss too xx

Epilogue

It’s 31st December 2018.   Hywel and I have decided to experiment with going to a hotel over New Year.  We’ve had a good year business-wise but it feels against the odds.  Online piracy has shut down many of our peers and UK government regulation is a constant threat.  We have no idea if we’ll ever be able to afford to stay in such a splendid country house hotel for three nights of partying again, so we determine to enjoy it while we can afford to.  We’ve spent the day playing chess, walking by the river and preparing to stay up till midnight.  There’s a reception and formal dinner, so I’ve spent an hour making up my face as thoroughly as I would for a shoot, with false eyelashes and everything.  I’ve painstakingly curled my hair, and pinned it up in a loose, fragile arrangement, that I hope looks more effortless than it was.  I’ve not put on my black, glittery ballgown yet.  Instead I’ve been nakedly practicing tying Hywel’s bowtie on myself, because I insisted that he mustn’t have a fake one. In a household with two bondage riggers, at least one of us should surely have the skill to figure it out.

Eventually, I do.  The black bow sits neatly around my neck and I feel like a Playboy bunny.  Leaving the bathroom, I parade triumphantly in front of Hywel, who’s also enjoying a last few minutes of being naked before he has to put on his new dress shirt, dinner jacket and all.  I’m feeling rather pleased with myself, rather bumptious and triumphant over my rigging skills, and in my having forced him to come to a formal event like this one in the first place.  I’m quite annoying, and this is in no way accidental on my part.  Goading Hywel is one of my favourite things.  I sit astride him to give him the full up-close benefit of my excellent bow-tying, and he reaches up and grips each of my nipples between finger and thumb before pulling me, hard, towards him.

And suddenly,  there we are, slipping into the alternative versions of ourselves.  The gear change between normal husband and wife and Dom/Sub is seamless, instant, and in perfect synchronicity.  I’ll never stop finding it miraculous, and I never cease to be grateful for how unselfconscious it’s possible to be about this kind of play-acting. His hands are in my hair, my mouth is on his cock, my makeup has ceased to matter.  We don’t have time to do this, but we’re doing it anyway.  He’s fucking me from behind, gripping my hipbones hard enough to hurt, hard enough to feel like an act of ownership, not just of penetration.  His cock slams into me, so hard it’s on the edge of pain, reminding me that pain from him is always welcome, and always even better than I’d remembered.

We have no BDSM equipment with us - essentially we’re having vanilla sex, but it couldn’t feel less so.  My desire to have his cock back in my mouth, or even better, down my throat, is quite overwhelming.  I kneel in front of him, and as always, it feels like the best place in the world.  I look up at him and he keeps direct eye-contact with me as he slaps my face, each stroke harder than the last, until I’m sure that I’ll have bruises to go down to dinner with.  In this state though, I can’t process the sensation as anything but pleasure.  I don’t think I even make a sound; his power over me feels total and I want more.

Hywel, as always, has remained sane.  He stops slapping my face before it bruises. Digging his fingers into my hair and gripping my head between his hands, he starts fucking my throat.  I love this feeling, I’m not in control of the rhythm, the depth, the speed, and that’s exactly the way I like it.  My technique is far from perfect, I gag several times, tears in my eyes.  But relentlessly, he continues, confident in his ability to read my responses correctly.  And he is correct. I don’t want to stop. Actually, I want to orgasm.  And so, for the last time in 2018, that’s what I do, with my clever, kind, dominant husband’s cock down my throat, my makeup smeared, his palm prints on my face and his hands destroying my elegant hairstyle.

We wash and get dressed.  I retie Hywel’s bowtie around his neck this time, and slip into my ballgown.  I don’t bother with panties, and I think it very likely that I’ll end up barefoot too - I like the idea of seeing the New Year in, dancing barefoot in Hywel’s arms.  My cried-through eye-makeup actually looks better than when it was fresh; between us we’ve created the post-coital, slightly smudged look that I’m so often trying to achieve artificially for shoots, and though my hair is no longer neat, I like it, since it’s a souvenir of such a very recent and excellent encounter.

Hywel and I are pornographers.  We have spent another year turning our own sexual desires into art, to entertain others who don’t have the opportunity to live out their fantasies, and to inspire those who do.  In the process, we have had false starts, hysteria, disasters, artistic differences, and moments of perfect agreement.  He is the person who most makes me want to be the best version of myself, and who makes me feel safe to be the very worst, too, because I’m his.  As, in reality, he’s also mine.  If only I could tell my teenage, guilt-ridden self that my life would one day be this joyful adventure, it’d make my journey to this point so much less angst-ridden. I can’t tell her, but I can tell you.  And I hope with all my heart that you will have these adventures too.

It’s time for us to go down to dinner.  And hand in hand, probably looking like any other couple, that’s what we do.