Notes from a Miami dominatrix

And I had some strange compulsions. One time, when I was a child, I ended up killing a blind kitten after using him as a sex toy. Lost in erotic reverie, I became so excited I accidently closed my legs and squashed the poor thing to death. For years, I thought I had gotten away with the crime, but later I learned my parents had figured out what had happened. More than anyone, they knew how weird I was.

My family and I immigrated to Staten Island in 2002 when I was 13. Back then, Schindler's List was a big favorite. There was something that really turned me on about Ralph Fiennes in full Nazi regalia. Then I began dating, but few of the relationships lasted beyond a date or two. It was hard finding a nice boy on Staten Island who was willing to strangle me. Usually, they cursed me out and rushed for the door once they heard what I wanted.

Like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, I was an "exasperating brat" prone to "fits of disorganized boredom" and "vehement and intense griping." Males of my age could not handle me, so just like the tiny beauty created by the Russian genius, I became attracted to older men. Only they would put up with my caprices. Indeed, mature guys turned me on, so the sight of sagging skin and hanging paunches didn't bother me as it would most girls my age.

Given my biography, becoming a professional domme seemed like the perfect career choice.


As I placed the nipple clamps on the sorrowful widower, he dared to speak. "Mistress, I want to be punched in the stomach. Please. A bad boy like me deserves to be in pain."

"All right then," I replied. So I dragged him across the room by the collar. Then I tied both of his ankles and one wrist to an x-shaped, wooden contraption known as a Saint Andrew's cross and put on a pair of boxing gloves.

But I hesitated to throw the first punch. I'm not some South Beach stick chick, more a broad-shouldered Xena Warrior Princess type. The sub — short for submissive, a term commonly used in the trade — was in his 60s. I was afraid I might hurt him. What if he had a heart attack? The safety of the client is a constant worry for the professional domme. I didn't want to end up in the newspapers like Massachusetts dominatrix Lauren Asher, AKA Mistress Lauren, who was arrested for manslaughter in 2006 after one of her clients died of a heart attack during a session. Although she was eventually acquitted, the case sent a shock wave through the bondage/discipline/sadomasochism scene. I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I knew CPR.

I turned around and looked at the head mistress. She seemed satisfied so far but was waiting for me to show I had what it takes. "Go on — hit him," she said.

I took a deep breath, swung my arm back as far as it would go, and threw the hardest punch I could muster into his solar plexus. The sub cried out in agony but did not call "red" — the code word kinky people use when the pain is too much and they want to stop the session. So I threw another punch. Then another. This aroused him. He smiled and smiled some more. Then it was over.

I left the dungeon to smoke a cigarette. I was exhausted. My muscles ached. Being a dominatrix was hard physical labor.

The head mistress followed me outside. "You did great," she said. She pulled a roll of money from her cleavage and handed me a hundred bucks. My first session was a success.

I quickly learned my new profession. There were a number of rules, the most important of which was no sexual intercourse. That counts as prostitution, which is illegal. No direct genital-to-genital contact is permitted, but you can tie up a client and shock him with an electric wand. Go figure.

Strap-on dildos, I was told, occupy a legal gray area. A court might construe their use as sodomy, which could earn you a fine and jail time. But the law is rarely enforced, so a lot of girls do it. Urination, defecation, and vomiting on a client are all things never done on a first visit. There's no way to know who's a cop.

Then there's the psychology of it. Submissives — sometimes called slaves — are allowed to address the domme only as "mistress" and are punished accordingly if they fail to do so. Clients are forbidden from looking the mistress directly in the eye; that's a sign of disrespect. There is, of course, a sexual element.

Rules in the place where I worked are strictly enforced. After the client leaves, the mistress is expected to clean sex toys and dispose of any rubber gloves. She also must wipe down the surfaces of the equipment with paper towels in preparation for the next customer.

Over six months, I saw male sexuality in all its kinky variety: from guys into light spanking and sensual sweet talk to those who are into hard-core caning and lashings of humiliation.

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