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Melissa enlisted the help of her only child to film porn (Picture: Getty) ‘How much for a custom film?’ is one of the more irritating questions I’m regularly asked, the tart version of how long is a piece of string. A custom film is when a client requests some content, made especially for them, to their own brief. I’ve charged £50 for one, which involved my shouting, ‘Jeffrey you’ve been an extremely naughty boy, and soon your bottom will be RED RAW,’ into my phone for five minutes, before pinging it to a giddy Jeffrey. I’ve also charged £15,000 for a custom, my most expensive ever, but more on that later. Since the introduction of the Online Safety Act, I’ve seen a big uptick in the amount of requests I get each month — nowadays I’m asked for around 25 a month, where it used to be about 15. It turns out when you restrict access to legal adult content, people don’t stop consuming it — they just get it from different sources. I never ask why my clients want the films they want. One man likes me to sing songs from Andy Pandy while I wear a posh hat. Another likes me to be slowly consumed by my bed, so that I must thrash and complain until I’m finally swallowed whole, and said bed burps out my bra. Melissa funds the porn films herself before taking what’s leftover as payment (Picture: Getty Images) I do as I’m told. Being a dominatrix requires a counter-intuitive amount of unquestioning compliance. When it came to filming my most expensive custom, I needed to pay to fly in six girls from all over Europe, hire a stately home, source a ton of props and a cameraman, and feed them all for a weekend. The £2,000 leftover from the £15,000 was mine. The girls were annoying divas, the stately home had absurdly low ceilings on which I kept nutting my noggin, but the cameraman tipped me into hysteria. He kept telling me how he worked in assorted schools, teaching tech skills, and how daring he felt working for me, too. I nodded politely, wondering how filming a few clearly bored women in their thirties could be called daring. I started spanking them. One woman, a busty Norwegian blonde, was a squealer. Her cries sounded more like pleasure than pain to my practised ear, but the cameraman turned twitchy. ‘Spanking is so noisy, isn’t it? Can’t you do it more quietly?’ the cameraman pleaded. ‘Don’t you think the neighbours might hear? Does she have to make that row?’ We were at the far edge of nowhere, it was my name on the rental agreement, and for what we were getting paid, we’d give our all, I explained, which meant making a racket. Spankos like noise. One of my clients has me swishing a cane for his ringtone. But cameraman kept sweating. Unfortunately, after a few hours filming, a police car drove past. Slowly. I’m confident it was nothing to do with us. But then it drove past again. And camera boy flipped. Melissa is inundated with requests for custom porn films (Credits: Natasha Pszenicki) Despite our repeated begging, interspersed with promises of gin, nudes and anecdotes, he packed up his gear and sprinted away from our horny hellhole as if pursued by wolves. If this film didn’t get made, I’d get a reputation as an unreliable welcher, and probably have to pay back the already mostly spent cash. I rang everyone I could think of, anyone with eyes, hands and a phone, for at this stage that was all I asked, describing the plight of seven beautiful porn stars. But it was a beautiful summery Saturday and everyone I knew was getting drunk on a beach somewhere. Then I thought of my adult son. It would not be the first time he’s played cameraman for me — or that I’ve worked with family. I’ve previously shared how my mother and I would work together, a pair of dominatrix. She was made redundant in her 60s and, having always been supportive of my line of work, said she’d like to give it a try. When we started working together we advertised online as a mother daughter spanking combo. Heavens, how we were flooded with responses! Soon, there was a very gentle rivalry between us as to who could earn more (we worked separately, as well as together), garner more attention, work a cane with more accuracy and passion. But she always won – after all, sex workers in their sixties and seventies are hard to come by. When my son turned 18 he began filming our videos – completing the perfect family tableau. It all started by chance when a friend of mine had asked for his help to monitor the second camera. His job was to make sure heads, bums and feet were all in view. He turned out to be a natural at it. I was so proud of him sitting in her kitchen on a tea break, surrounded by the most gorgeous naked women who I’d spanked, looking them all in the eye, chatting about their holiday plans. So, when I needed a last-minute stand-in I gave him a call. He was washing up for an obnoxious boss and minimum wage. Could I possibly bribe him into jacking both in and rescuing us? I told him the honour of the family was at stake and played up the squealy busty Norwegian. I even offered him £200. My son, happily, has inherited my tenuous relationship to morality, and told his obnoxious boss I’d suffered a medical emergency. Acute alcohol poisoning, I believe. To be fair if that ghastly weekend had dragged on much longer he might not have been far wrong. The boss let him rush to my side; the film got made, with a charming, amateur, poorly-lit quality the buyer rather enjoyed. I get the job done, no matter what, and thanks to the government, business is booming. Do you have a story to share? Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.
