Fifty Shades of Domination - My True Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

worshipped at my feet.
Being bullied was to play no part, however, in the awful day when I first learned about what I have always thought of as the BIG LIE. After school that afternoon I had walked home, as I often did, with my best friend, Susie. She was a plump, friendly, but always-naughty little girl of my own age, who lived near our small, semi-detached house on a London suburban council estate. I think at the time she qualified as my ‘best, best’ friend. It was cold, cloudy April weather and, as usual, my house was chilly and damp.
One of my abiding memories as a child is of always being cold in that house. It was an old council property; the type now euphemistically termed ‘social housing’. It was a form of social housing in my day too; so cold in winter that huddling together for warmth in a highly ‘social’ way was the only means of keeping warm. The house is now long gone, and good riddance too, with its lack of any cavity walls, no insulation, no double-glazing and no trace of anything thatcould remotely be described as central heating. I remember visiting friends in the winter and desperately trying to eke out my stay for as long as possible in order to avoid returning to my own freezing bedroom. There were times when the house seemed colder inside than out and I hesitated to get into bed because of the chilled, clammy feeling of the sheets. I have long suffered from, thankfully mild, asthma, probably not unrelated to the fact that mould grew unchecked on the damp bathroom walls of my home. My friends now are well aware of my constant need to be warm. That lust for heat comes from growing up in a room where, rather than wipe condensation from the windows, one sometimes had to scrape ice from the inside of the glass before being able to see what the weather might be doing outside.
Because her house was always warmer, Susie and I settled down in her small bedroom to play. Whatever our games were on any particular day, we two seemed always to be talking; silly conversations about childhood things, and make-believe games of being grown-up and what we might do, who we might marry, and where we might live. But this afternoon was different. Susie had a secret to share.
The night before, Susie’s mummy had been chatting to an elderly neighbour who lived in our street. I still remember the woman well; she was the local busybody, shrew-faced, always a bit miserable and with rarely a kind word to say about anything to anyone. Susie had overheard their entire conversation, and was desperate to tell me her news: ‘Your mummy’s not really your mummy,’ she said. ‘And your daddy isn’t really your daddy; your real daddy lives over the road with your real nan and granddad, and your big sister isn’treally your sister, and it’s all what my mummy calls “a God-Almighty mess”. And you are… a bastard little girl.’
Susie was just excited by her news; blurting out her new secret with words that were never meant to be as harsh and unkind as they sound on this page. And neither she nor I had any real understanding of what a ‘bastard’ was. But we knew it was a naughty, nasty name that grown-ups called each other. As each new revelation tumbled from her lips, I found myself struggling to understand, overwhelmed with a growing sense of horror and disbelief, and fighting a losing battle as I tried hard not to cry. Finally, with tears now streaming down my face, I ran, as fast as fast could be, down Susie’s stairs and straight out of her front door. Hurrying across the road and into my own house, I rushed past the two people I had always known as mother and father in the kitchen and took the stairs two-at-a-time. As I threw myself, sobbing, face down on the bed in the sanctuary of my own little boxroom bedroom, my horrified mum was hot on my heels.
‘Miranda… darling… what on earth is wrong? Why are you crying? Are you hurt? What’s the matter?’
It took many minutes of her cuddling, holding and