From Abused Child to a Dominant Woman: The Journey of Mistress Rose

By Susan Parry

This is the life story about a little girl from Scotland who was born into poverty. She had many traumatic and harrowing experiences along the way. She overcame them all and rose to become a top Dominatrix, both in Los Angeles and Britain. Amongst her clientele were some of L.A.s rich and famous people, including stars of stage and screen.
Some of the negative things that had huge impacts in her life include:
Suffering abuse, (mental, physical and sexual), both as a very young child and as an adult, discovering that her dad was not her biological father, a drink and drug fuelled marriage, alcohol and cocaine addictions, the death of a very dear friend due to a heroin overdose, shooting two drug dealers and going to jail as a result.
Some of the subjects covered in her book include;
Details of some of the most bizarre requests, fetishes, role play, fantasies, all of which she became an expert in. The techniques of pain and pleasure that brings a sexual high that can never be experienced with so-called normal sex, parties in Bel Air and Beverley Hills, the white Rolls Royce, her cocaine and alcohol addiction, running girls for parties, dealing with big time drug dealers, her recovery from drug and alcohol addictions, being arrested for attempted murder, her time in jail, second marriage and divorce, weekend trips to Vegas and Reno with high rollers, and so much more besides.

Mistress Rose talks about the problems she had and also passes on some useful advice that she has learned through these experiences. She hopes that it may help a lot of people who are experiencing similar problems that she herself has managed to conquer.

This is a roller coaster of a life story that needs to be told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477249703

Book preview

© 2013 by Susan Parry. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4969-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4970-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Authors quote

Snippets

Dedications

Chapter 1 The Early Years

Chapter 2 Senior school

Chapter 3 The Next Stage

Chapter 4 My Return To London

Chapter 5 The Eleven Year Holiday

Chapter 6 The Scam

Chapter 7 Meeting Los Angeles Top Dominatrix

Chapter 8 My first client

Chapter 9 Making My Own Way As A Dominatrix

Chapter 10 Parting of the ways with Jeanette

Chapter 11 My own dungeon

Chapter 12 The beginning of my downfall

Chapter 13 Cricket (R.I.P.)

Chapter 14 Sybil’s Place

Chapter 15 My decision to leave America

Chapter 16 Coming home to Scotland

Chapter 17 The dominatrix rises from the ashes

Chapter 18 Meeting my ³rd and final husband

Chapter 19 London— third time lucky

Chapter 20 The final chapter?

Postscript

Prologue

I h ave had a very varied life to say the least, and although a large part of this book is about my life as a dominatrix, it is first and foremost my life story as a whole.

I must admit that it has been extremely difficult for me to write this book, because no one wants their mistakes in print and in the public domain, but I can honestly say that it has been very therapeutic for me as well. I have managed to put most of my demons behind me now and get on with the rest of my life.

I started my journey through life by being physically abused by my mother and sexually abused by my uncle. My journey has taken me from the poverty of Glasgow in the fifties, to the peace and contentment of the present day. In between these times I have experienced so many highs and lows. With the encouragement of my husband Steve, I have decided to bare my soul. I have tried to give some helpful advice along the way, and I sincerely hope that it will help someone who may be suffering from some of the things that I have. I have laughed a lot during my life, but I have cried a lot as well.

I sincerely hope that you decide to follow my journey through my book and I sincerely hope that this book gives hope and inspiration to every single person who reads it.

Mistress Rose.

Authors quote

This is my first attempt at writing, but what a fantastic place to start. I have been given the honour of telling the life story of a truly remarkable lady. A large part of Mistress Rose’s life, and the book, covers the world of domination and fetishes, but it is primarily her life story; I am so proud that she has she has allowed me the privilege of putting her life story into print.

As I listened to the tapes of her experiences, I have laughed and cried along with her at times, but mainly I have marvelled at her attitude to life in general. I am amazed by the fact that she came through all of this relatively unscathed.

A lot of her positive experiences resulted in her meeting some of Los Angeles’s rich and famous people, including film stars, mixing in the same circles as some of the richest people in America, and having all the trappings of success around her; but she also mixed with a lot of unsavoury characters including top-end drug dealers and gangsters

Snippets

He could hear us talking and she cracked her whip which aroused him almost instantly. She then whipped his dick very hard causing his erection to subside very quickly and said, You know you are not allowed to have one of those without my permission.

I don’t know why, but I looked at Pete and said, My god, were not going back are we?

This was supposed to be a 6-week holiday but as it turned out, I was to stay in America for 11 years.

He must have been something very bad to some very bad people, because not only was Europe not far enough away, but he had to go to another continent.

As I looked around, I saw a naked man suspended from the ceiling wearing a leather mask, gag, and blindfold. For some reason I became aroused at this spectacle.

They knew that they were not going to get anything out of me so they just charged with two counts of attempted murder.

During my time as a dominatrix I would have maids to do all my ironing. They would iron my clothes with love and attention just because they were ironing for their Mistress. They particularly liked ironing my underwear

As he carried me up to bed he would run his hands all over my body including my genitals; it was always over my nightdress and never skin-on-skin, as if that made any difference.

A Dominatrix sells her skills—not her body. She creates a secret world were most fantasies can come true.

I knew that if I had stayed to fight it out with Pete someone was going to be killed, and it certainly wasn’t going to be me!

Dedications

My old headmaster.

The postman who saved my life.

The many doctors and nurses that have

been so kind to me.

Jeanette.

Cricket.

Pete.

George.

Barbara.

Tony.

Mary

My mum.

Steve.

Chapter 1

The Early Years

I am dedicating this first chapter to the little girl within me who had never felt love.

I was born into poverty in a small village just outside Glasgow, Scotland in 1950. My mum was forty years old and the person that I thought at the time was my dad, was sixty-seven. Although he wasn’t my biological dad, I will always remember him as my real dad.

My family were Irish Catholics and I remember my early years as being happy and there were always parties in our house to which lots of relatives came to. My father would play the violin and another relative would play the accordion, and I would stand on the table and dance my little legs off. Everyone used to say that I was going to be an actress and a star; little did they know how close to the truth they really were. I worshipped my dad and he would tell me stories about the old days in Scotland. He said that he knew that one day I would be the one member of the family who would travel the world; none of us knew how far this was going to be.

Around the age of seven I woke up one morning and it seemed as though my whole world had come crashing down around me. My mum had been going out at weekends for quite a while and when she came home she was usually drunk, but happy. This particular morning was different though because there seemed to be an atmosphere between my mum and dad that I had never felt before. It was a Saturday morning and they weren’t talking to each other. This was the starting point at which my life began to change for the worse. When my mum came home from a night out drinking, she would pick on my dad and then the fighting would start between them. The arguments would last until the early hours of the morning until she eventually went to bed. Over the next few years my mother retreated more and more in to herself, and during this time she was neglecting everything in the house; particularly me. She seemed to exist only for the weekends which I dreaded. The weekends became nightmares, but as the months went by, the nightmares began to start earlier as the week progressed. I started to fear the weekend as it became nearer and nearer as the week progressed, so in truth the entire week was a complete nightmare. The weeks became months and the months became years and this cycle of abuse lasted for eight long years until I finally left school and moved out of the house.

Every weekend when she was drunk, the fights and the arguments became more abusive and physical towards my father. I would get out of bed and run downstairs to try to protect my dad from her. Then, because of my actions she would vent her anger and hatred towards me. There was no more music or laughter, we were rarely had visitors anymore and the house had become a virtual battleground. All week she would stay in bed recovering and never had the courage to face us. Then at the weekend it would start all over again. Throughout all of this I still desperately wanted her to start loving me again.

When my mum used to punch and slap me I would always end up crying, and for some reason this seemed to spur her on even more. I decided not to cry during the next beating and see what happened. She didn’t like this one little bit and for whatever reason she didn’t seem to hit me as much as usual. I knew then that no matter how hard she hit me, I was beginning to get the upper hand mentally. She would push my head back against the wall with her hand, utter some expletives and leave the room. She said during one of these confrontations, You think you are so much better than me don’t you, you little bitch? I remember thinking to myself, Yes I am, and it was then that I knew that I had finally succeeded in changing her mentality. Whether this was a good or bad thing remained to be seen.

As I grew older, I learned that if I stood in front of my mother and just stared at her she would eventually back down. I have used this tactic in many situations during my later life. If you stare directly into some ones eyes and make them believe that you have nothing to lose, they will nearly always back down. The more that happened to me throughout my life, and the more they took away, I maintained the ability to show through my eyes that I didn’t care if I lived or died. A lot of the time I actually didn’t care both as a child and as an adult.

She had stopped caring for me and I felt as though she hated me. I had to look after myself by getting ready for school, feeding myself (if I was lucky enough to find any food) and make my way to school alone. I really struggled to get myself ready for school and most of the time I would wear dirty clothes; and I was dirty and hungry as well. I never had a school uniform like most of the other children and this fact alone caused me to feel alienated from most of them.

Like most schools we would have a Christmas party which Father Christmas would come to. We would have a Christmas dinner and pudding followed by games and general messing about. Then Father Christmas came in carrying a big sack full of presents. The screams of happiness and joy were deafening. We were then ushered into lines by the nuns and teachers to go up one at a time to sit on his knee and tell him what we wanted for Christmas.

Christmas at our house was just the same as any other day and we never got presents either. However, I still believed in Father Christmas and would tell him what I wanted for Christmas anyway. He then gave each of us a present wrapped in sparkling paper, which I ripped open as soon as I got off his knee. It would only be some cheap toy or game, but I was really happy to be getting anything at all. The whole school was allowed to wear their own clothes on this day and it was the only day that I felt as though I fitted in with everybody else, clothes wise anyway.

As I mentioned earlier, Christmas in our house was no different from any other day except that we may have got a piece of fruit, but that was the only difference; I think that this only happened twice anyway. My mother treated Christmas as just another excuse to drink herself stupid; not that she needed an excuse.

My birthday was just the same, no cards and no presents. I know some of you may be thinking that surely that couldn’t be true? But I assure you that it was. It was just the same for a lot of kids from similar backgrounds. I thought my birthday was on the 25th of the month until I read my birth certificate later in life. It was then that I found out I was actually born on the 29th. I did get a card and a little present up to my seventh birthday, but that was the last time my birthday was even recognised. I thought to myself, God almighty, I must have meant a lot to her, she couldn’t even be bothered to get the date I was born right!

Some of the other children in my class and a couple of my closest friends would have birthday parties. One day a boy in our class was having his birthday party after school and he had invited the whole class to it. I was trembling with excitement as I made my way to his house. I knocked on the door and the boy whose party it was opened the door himself. He looked straight at my empty hands and said, Haven’t you brought me a present? to which I replied, No, I’m sorry but I didn’t have any money to buy you one He just slammed the door in my face. I could hear the music and the laughter from all the other children. I was heartbroken as I walked home sobbing my heart out and cried most of that night in my bed as well.

My clothes had always been hand me downs from my half-sister and I remember getting the first piece of clothing that no one had ever worn before me; It was my first Holy Communion dress. My mother took me to the dressmakers to be measured for it, and the dressmaker made this beautiful white gown for me. I loved that dress so much. It had a white veil, matching white socks and white sandals to accompany it. I looked at myself in the mirror and imagined that this would how I would like to look when I got married. Unfortunately that never happened because I never married in a church. On the day of my Holy Communion I was walking to the chapel, and I felt so proud because I felt as though I was a little bride.

I suppose my mother had made the effort so that she wouldn’t look bad in the eyes of the church on this very important day for catholic children. I will never really know if this was the real reason that she had put so much effort into preparing me for my special day. I don’t remember what happened to the dress in the end, but I do recall wearing it every chance I ever had; I think that I must have just wore it out completely, together with the sandals.

Although my life at home was horrible I did get some relief from it at school. I knew that I would at least get the free milk that was provided and a free school dinner. Even getting free school dinners was an ordeal in itself. This was because anyone who had free school dinners couldn’t go straight into the dining room to get them, we all had to line up and wait until those who were paying for them got served first. Of course we had to suffer the indignity of the other children making fun of us as well. It was like the scene from Oliver Twist. I made some good friends in that dinner queue, most of whom were poor like me. We all came from similar backgrounds and the main things we had in common were alcoholic parents, abuse (sexual, physical and mental) and of course poverty. Being poor, scruffy and dirty draws attention to yourself and forces you to mix with people who are in a similar position. School children in general are loathsome to anyone who was different from most, and we were singled out just because our families were poor. As you can probably guess, being in school was not a happy time in my life, but it was better than my home life though.

As a result of constant verbal abuse and scorn from other children at school, I became very good at standing up for myself. I could only take so much and one day in particular someone said something nasty about me and her friends all started laughing. I looked her straight the eye and said, I’ll be at the gate at four o’clock bitch, and we’ll see how funny you think you are then! I waited at the gate for her and, egged on by my pals, I battered her. Surprise, surprise, I never had a problem with her or her friends again.

One day I was beaten by an older girl who was two years older than me, and went home bleeding and crying to my dad.

He didn’t have any sympathy for me and told me to get back out and sort her out or he would make me very sorry. He did give me a piece of typical Scottish advice though; He said, When you go up to her don’t say anything just sort her out and ask questions later; I don’t care if you pick up a brick or a piece of wood, just get her down, there are no fair fights only winners.

That piece of advice stood me in good stead for the rest of my life and it helped me to survive through some very tricky situations; it was that important. It was just like the law of the jungle where only the strong survive. It was kill or be killed; not literally of course.

In Glasgow there is a term used to illustrate this. It is called the Glasgow kiss, which is a head butt. This is used to get your opponent down first and gives you the advantage before any dialogue is started. Once you have beaten your opponent then, and only then, is it the time for talking.

I had three real pals whose names were Mary, Jill and Betty, and we became a force to be reckoned with. We earned the nickname of the untouchables. I would only fight my own battles though and won most of them because of my father’s advice. I didn’t care if I won or lost but my opponents did, and I always got the first punch in.

When I used to play with my friends after school, at tea time their parents would call them in to have their evening meal. No one came from my house to call for me so I would make my way home and make myself something to eat; invariably it would be something like jam and bread. When we came out later after tea, they would tell me what they had eaten for their dinner and ask me what I had. Naturally I would make up a delicious meal and tell them that was what I had. They knew I was lying of course, which only made me feel more shame and anger towards my mother.

We used to act up in class and generally mess about. I don’t how, but I seemed to have the gift of being able to mess about but also take in what the teacher was saying; and to their surprise I always had high marks in the tests.

At various times of the year the school would put on plays and a Christmas special, to which the parents were invited to come and watch their children perform. Every one of us would be given a role—no matter how small. In all the time I was at school, not once did either my father or mother come to watch me. Even though it really upset me, deep down I was glad they never came.

I had originally written a detailed account of some of the sexual abuse I suffered, but because I have no documentary evidence or any witnesses to collaborate what happened I have had to change it. However, thinking about it now, the actual acts themselves do not actually need to be described in detail because it was very traumatic no matter what form they took.

Only yesterday I found myself re-living it all over again even though it began over fifty years ago. I have said in this book that is has been very therapeutic for me to let out all my feelings out, both good and bad. Now I find myself looking back at this period of my life and I am filled with anger and sadness. The anger is directed towards the man who took my innocence away from me, and the sadness at how my life was changed forever through no fault of my own.

Unbeknown to me, I have spent the better part of my life keeping people at arm’s length and not letting them into my heart completely. I didn’t trust anyone enough and I didn’t love myself enough either. In fact I am now wondering why I have hated myself so much that I have ruined all my relationships through a hatred directed towards myself.

It was a cold rainy evening and I had gone to his house because everyone was out at my house, which was very unusual, and I couldn’t get in. This led to the first time that he abused me. It all happened so quickly and before I knew what had happened I found myself being ushered by him towards the front door of his house. He then told me he would take me home and we left his house with me in a haze. I just didn’t understand what had happened and just before he opened the door he pressed a half-crown, (around 12and a 1/2 pence in today’s money) into my hand and told me not to tell anyone what had happened. The next thing I knew was that I was standing in the street with this silver coin in my hand. For some reason all I could think about was this money and briefly forgot about the abuse. Unfortunately this became a regular occurrence and affected me for the rest of my life.

My elder sister hated him and whenever he came into our house she would immediately get up and leave. The venomous look she gave him has led me to believe that he had either done the same to her, or at the very least tried to. We have never talked about it so I can’t really say one way or another, but all the signs were their even though it has took me all this time to recognize them.

I am in a state of shock at the moment because of the realization that this bastard is still in my mind over fifty years later. I would urge anyone who has been abused to either report it no matter how long ago it happened, or talk to someone about it. Unfortunately I can’t report it now because the bastard is long dead now, and going to dance on his grave would only validate his existence.

After that first time, he took every opportunity he could to get me into his house to do it again. It was always the same, like a ritual. It must have been a catholic thing; because he never actually touched me, in his warped mind he had not committed a sin and could wipe the slate clean at confession in church.

He never touched me in any way at all at his house; however, he did touch me in my own home. He used to come to our house bringing some beer with him, and chat and drink with my mum and dad and I would be sitting in the room. I remember the first time it happened. I was tired and asked my mum if I could go to bed and my uncle said that he would take me up. I blamed my mum and dad for not thinking that this was a strange thing for him to do and not doing anything to stop it. As he carried me up to bed he would run his hands all over my body including my genitals; it was always over my nightdress and never skin-on-skin, as if that made any difference. This became a regular event and I didn’t feel as though I could tell anyone because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I don’t know if it is just a Scottish thing, but no one asked any questions. I had always thought that at least I would be safe from the sexual abuse in my own home, but now my only safe haven was at school.

I had always had a liking for animals and birds; I would often bring little birds that had fell out of trees, or hedgehogs and stray cats or dogs home. My mother never let me keep any of them and would throw them out of the house. When I was nine I went to a local fair that was trying to raise money for a new chapel. I was wandering around on my own when I saw a little box with a gorgeous little puppy in it. It was all alone and I knew I couldn’t leave her there, so I picked her up