Notes from a Miami dominatrix

During the recent Winter Music Conference, my boss received a call from a drunken tourist who requested a severe double-domme corporal-punishment session. He left the level of severity up to us. He was an odd fish, a long and lean 70-year-old who was covered in liver spots and enjoyed partying to techno music. He arrived at the dungeon early Friday morning, two hours after the scheduled appointment at midnight. We were not pleased, so we strapped his naked body to the bondage table and caned him in the rear for a full hour. There was even some blood. He begged us to stop, but he didn't use the code word red, so we refused. When I poured salt and alcohol onto his wounded flesh, there was still no code red. He cried like a little baby.

The dungeon's owner taunted him: "We thought you could handle corporal punishment. I guess not."  He lay on the table sobbing for ten minutes. Then, suddenly, he stopped. "It was more than I expected," he stuttered, looking drained. "I really enjoyed it."

The meticulous fantasies that some men have are often comical, and the fact that they are willing to pay to fulfill those fantasies is even funnier.

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A recent client walked into the dungeon with a plastic bag full of props — a clown nose, a ballet tutu, and a butt plug with a piggy tail attached to it. I dressed him in the tutu while he attached the clown nose with a tube of superglue. He knelt before me and began sniffing as if he were searching for truffles. "Oink, oink," he grunted.

Annoyed at his porcine impertinence, I slapped his face and grabbed his hair, which, much to my surprise, came off in my hand. It was a toupee. He re-attached it with the same tube of glue he had used for the clown nose, while I tried to suppress my giggles.

Men seek refuge in a dungeon for a variety of reasons, but one of the most obvious ones is they are afraid to share their deepest and darkest fantasies with their wives or girlfriends. One such guy — one of the few clients I developed an emotional bond with — was a tall, handsome European businessman who visited me every Tuesday. He loved me as a submissive should love a mistress. He couldn't get enough of my insults.

And I loved him as a dominatrix loves her human pet. He was a creative man who always amused me and showered me with gifts such as bottles of fine wine and dresses, as well as very generous tips. Every week, it would be something new with him. One week, I would be a cruel mistress; the next, I would be a sensual goddess who would whisper naughty things in his ear and gently spank his bottom. Our fantasy play came to an abrupt end when his wife discovered evidence of our weekly assignations.

I was heartbroken when I learned our sadomasochistic relationship was over. Not only were the gifts and money gone, but so was a rare intimacy at work. Maybe it was just the kind of low-level sexual tension a handsome executive shares with his sexy secretary — but more twisted.


It's Wednesday night at Graziano's, an Argentine steak house in Coral Gables, and the place is packed. Sitting before me, squirming, is a scrawny young man in his late 20s with acne and a jutting overbite. He wants to be publicly humiliated. He's sitting on a vibrating butt plug that's operated by remote control. As the waiter approaches, my boss reaches under the table and presses a button. The subbie muffles a squeal of delight. The waiter is puzzled: "What's that buzzing sound?"

I look at the head mistress and chuckle. The man has no idea what we we're up to.

"I never thought I'd do this," the client whispers after the waiter leaves. This is his first session in public, and he's red-faced with pleasure.

"You must really love what you do," he says.

I think for a moment and realize he's right. I began doing this for the money but continue for the thrill. This is not the case with every client, but there's something about seeing a man in total submission that's a turn-on. That might seem unhealthy to some people, but having grown up in a Muslim-majority country where you can be prosecuted for even thinking about doing what I do for a living, I find it strangely liberating.

Being a dominatrix is not for the faint of heart. You need to be part nurse, part actress, and part psychologist. And the job certainly has its drawbacks. Having someone suck your toes for 60 minutes requires a lot of patience.

But when it's good, it's so good that I sometimes think I should be paying the clients. In the heat of a session, something comes over me that makes me higher than any drug. It's as if I am possessed by pure id, a surge of untrammeled sexual electricity. Looking down at a slave's prostrate body, I cackle like a B-movie villain and feel intoxicated with my own power.

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