Published in LiP Magazine
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MY DAY AS A DOM:
Humiliating for Rent

by Heather Pickford
05.15.980

My move to Chicago was ill-fated from day one. The great job that had lured me from New Orleans had fallen through, and I had been scrambling for the last three months to pay rent and overdue bills. After my six-year-old son and I finished our dinner of macaroni-and-cheese and tuna, I put him to bed and picked up the paper.

I needed serious cash, so I followed a friend's advice and turned to the Adult Classified section. Stripping and escorting were out of the question, so I immediately zeroed in on the fetish section. I had worked in club called The Dungeon, which had an S&M flair. I'd even gotten tipped extra for smacking the patrons.

I'd heard women could make a lot more money by hitting men just a little harder—with implements. I even felt there might have been some twisted justice to it.

I took a deep breath and grabbed the phone from beside the bed, knocking over an ashtray with the effort. The polite woman who answered informed me that Jay would call me back. When he did, Jay sounded professional, interviewing me as if I was applying for a bank teller position. I told him I had never worked as a dominatrix before, and we set an interview appointment for the next day.

The address was unremarkable from the street, although I had to be buzzed through the locked door. The brunette receptionist wore a tweed suit and gave me a friendly smile as she asked me to fill out an application. I blanched at the fact that I had to leave behind evidence, but filled it out anyway and then glanced at the surroundings.

The stark room had the feel of a telemarketing office with everyone out to lunch. The walls were white, the carpeting grey, four or five desks were lined up against the wall, and there were the inevitable generic pictures on the wall. I chose a copy of Rolling Stone and leaned back into the splitting leatherette and chrome chair to await my interview.

Getting to Know the Boss

When Jay stepped out to call me into his office, I didn't see the greasy, three-piece-suited fellow I'd expected. He was probably in his late thirties, tall with a slight paunch, but he reminded me of a grown high-school stoner dressed for senior pictures—a Rush fan. His hair needed trimming and his beige shirt was tucked haphazardly into black pants.

His eyes, however, didn't have the vague look to match the image. They were intelligent and probing. I felt uneasy, not because of the position I was applying for, but because I could feel his eyes shoring me up—registering my body language, calculating the build hidden under my jacket, and screening for insecurities. He asked why I felt I could be a dominatrix. I offered a lame answer about my submissive boyfriends, and how I'd enjoyed smacking guys over the bar in New Orleans. I could tell he wasn't convinced that it was a "lifestyle," so I nervously laid out the truth: I really needed the money, had a strong personality, and theatre background. Besides, I said, I looked good in polyurethane.

Jay began telling me a bit about his business. He and his fianceé were partners and co-owners of a number of dungeons in New York, as well as a few in Japan and Australia.

He wanted it to be clear that he was serious about his business, and that he ran it as he would any other enterprise. He leaned towards me and sternly stated that he ran a "clean" business: no prostitution of any kind would be tolerated, and I would be immediately fired if I were nude or if skin-to-genital contact took place.

He then showed me how he'd find out if I ever tried to break his rules. Jay turned the monitor on his desk to face me, and I observed what seemed to be an X-rated version of a torture chamber tableau straight from a wax museum. Although the picture was grainy, I made out a scantily-clad woman hanging upside down from the ceiling, with a bar forcing her legs apart and her ankles in shackles. Next to her towered an imposing femme fatale in thigh-high boots and a bustier, adjusting the shackles. In a corner was the blurred image of a man, hunched over. Jay then quickly turned the monitor back around to face him.

He told me that I also needed to understand that most clients ejaculated at the end of the session, because they were there for sexual gratification, albeit fantasized.

I was wondering what I had gotten myself into—until he started talking about the money. Jay told me that if I had five "sessions" a day, five days a week, for a year, I'd make $50,000 before taxes. After two months, full health benefits kicked in, and the hours were basically nine to five, with most weekends off.

Pathetic as this may sound, the dollar signs made the scene I'd just witnessed seem less like a torture chamber, and more like a challenging, somewhat aerobic acting role. At the time, I was working four part-time jobs, all at weird hours of the day, and trying to raise my child in between. Even so, I still owed more than $30,000 in college loans, and was facing either the welfare line or the humiliation of moving back to my parents' house in my tiny hometown. The thought of being able to pay off my bills and even save enough to start my own business was enough to make me think I could act my way through anything for a couple of years.

I asked a few more questions, including whether the events being monitored were also videotaped. Jay laughed and assured me that there would be no incriminating evidence if I ever became rich and famous. I also asked if any other role-playing would be required, as I refused to play a "daddy's little girl" scenario. He told me that this was more of a submissive role, and so I wouldn't play it if I were hired, and that employees were never required to take a session they were uncomfortable with.

I felt I'd already consumed enough information for the day, and didn't ask for more details, although I already knew I'd certainly decline sessions which required diaper changing. Jay wrapped up the interview by telling me that he'd be glad to have me as an employee, but that I should take an evening to think about it. He asked me to call the next day if I'd like to come in and observe as a preface to training.

Leaving Jay's office, I passed a beautiful young black woman who grinned at me shyly and offered a soft "hello." She moved past through a cracked door, behind which I caught a glimpse of a couch, the corner of a mirror, and a jumble of clothing. The woman behind the desk asked if I was coming to work with them. I told her that I honestly didn't know.

As I stepped out the door into the sunshine, I lit a Winston, took a chest-tightening drag, and walked to my car.

Scoping Out the Scene

I spoke to several girlfriends that evening over the phone, marveling at the $50,000 and health benefits, and laughing at the thought of my being a professional dominatrix. I imagined people's reactions when I told them what I did for a living—I was sure to spice up my class reunion.

Afterwards, despite some apprehension, I decided to go ahead and monitor a few sessions. What was the harm? I figured if I didn't find it erotic, I'd at least find some humor in it.

Jay had told me to come in at 9:00 a.m., so the sun was streaming through the blinds of the front office when I'd arrived. I was a few minutes late because I'd found it difficult to decide what to wear to a new job that entailed watching half-naked women beat up men. I'd settled on a blazer, jeans, and some tough-ass brown leather biker boots.

Jay explained that Tina was going to train me, as she'd been at it for some time, and was quite knowledgeable. I was escorted to the room I'd seen briefly the day before; it was slightly untidy, but had the same generic look as the reception area. The furniture, however, was very seventies lush. There were two overstuffed black leatherette couches, and a huge glass-and-chrome coffee table, strewn with empty food containers. A second table in a far corner offered a neat array of doughnuts and sweets on plate.

As I sat on the couch and waited for Tina, the shy young girl I'd seen the day before came in. We exchanged hellos again, and she curled up on the other couch with a book.

I turned to the reading material Jay had given me to check out-black-and-white publications on bondage and S&M. He had pointed out that they didn't depict the kind of scenes that happened in the dungeon, as most of the women in the books were submissive, but said I'd get the "flavor" of it. Some of them were pretty extreme, but I was disturbingly engrossed by a story when Tina walked into the room.

She was by far the oldest woman I'd seen there—early forties—and was not especially attractive, though by no means homely. She had a trim figure, short blonde hair, perfect makeup, and wore ankle-strapped five-inch stilettos and handcuff earrings with her plain grey dress. She introduced herself in a surprisingly tiny voice, and then asked me if I'd come up with a name yet.

I gave her a blank look which told her that I hadn't, so she explained that each "girl" made up a name, although I could use my own if I wanted. She told me her name was Mistress Fire, and introduced the shy woman as Mistress Rhapsody. The clients were always to call us "Mistress," she said, and were to be punished if they didn't. Often, she confided, they would omit the title on purpose so they would be punished.

Tina sat down beside me on the couch with a black bag about the size of an airplane carry-on. She unzipped it, and told me that inside it were special things that she'd personally bought for the job, but that I could use for a client if I asked. The bag had pouches and pockets of all sizes; the array of items was astounding. She had rubber gloves, clothespins, candles, lighters, Vaseline, nylon cords, leather thongs, and dildos of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Tina then showed me a filing cabinet that held a large collection of devices, including more dildos, riding crops, and ropes. The larger whips were leaning against the wall next to the cabinet.

She escorted me to a closet bursting with spike heels, costumes, and paraphernalia. Tina pulled out two huge pink suitcases and suggested I look through them while she attended to a client in the office. They held plus-sized negligees for cross-dressing clients; Tina said she had scoured many secondhand stores to find them. I reluctantly pulled out each cheap nylon item and stroked them obligingly, feeling as if I were rifling through my grandma's underwear drawer.

Tina returned and commented on how pretty the tattered pink slip I'd pulled from the trunk was. She told me how much the clients enjoyed the costumes, and looked truly happy as she described how much fun I'd have with cross-dressers. She said it was like playing dress-up; they liked to do "girl things" like putting on makeup, having their hair brushed, and gossiping. As she put away the costumes, Tina sighed and said that she would describe her job as a cross between being an actress and working for the Make a Wish Foundation.

She paused with her hands immersed in the ancient dingy fluff of the pink suitcase and confessed that she'd been miserable as an accountant for twenty years until she'd found her calling. She was not only content in her career, but excited by the prospect of sharing it with others. This was made evident by the way she kept repeating "you're going to have so much fun with this," throughout my training.

Next, I followed Tina into a locked room adjacent to Jay's office. It looked like an adolescent girl's bedroom, with a white wicker headboard on the bed, a matching dressing table, and a full-length mirror draped with a collection of necklaces and scarves. She told me that cross-dressing fetishists were usually brought in here, but that the room was also used for other fetishes, such as infantilism.

Tina pulled out a couple of bins that were hidden under the bed, and explained their contents. There were diapers, powders and wipes because, she said, some clients liked to "mess" themselves and have you clean them. I made a mental note reminding myself to refuse these jobs, no matter what the pay was. She pulled out a half-empty jar of baby food with a dark expression, and warned me never to place opened food back into the bin.

Tina looked angrily around the room and peered into a garbage can, and then sharply said that it was important to keep the rooms clean, and someone on the staff was not doing their part. Apparently, each "girl" was supposed to dump the garbage, clean anything used in the session with a chemical in a spray bottle and paper towels, and clean up any mess the client may have made. When she realized the room was also devoid of cleaning supplies, she told me to go back into the lounge and wait while she talked to Jay.

While I waited, I struck up a conversation with Mistress Rhapsody. Despite everyone's promises that no one was forced to take sessions they were uncomfortable with, I was very leery after the introduction to the baby wipes. She said she'd never taken a session like that, but that the ones she hated were the brown and golden showers.

I gawked at her statement and tentatively asked if brown showers were what I thought they were. She grimaced and said yes. Confused, I asked how that was possible if total nudity wasn't allowed. Rhapsody said that, for golden showers, mistresses blindfolded clients before urinating on them, making it (questionably) legal because the client couldn't see them exposed. The brown showers—which involved the client smelling, touching, and even tasting a woman's feces—were legally, if not healthfully, accomplished by the mistresses defecating on a piece of paper in the bathroom, and then presenting it to the client.

I must have looked aghast. I was truly wondering if there were any sessions I was going to be able to handle.

Rhapsody laughed at my expression and told me that sometimes it really was fun. She made her first fifty bucks there very easily off of a foot fetishist. She and another mistress split the one-hundred dollar fee he'd paid to watch as the two of them stomped on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Apparently he got off on watching the goo squish through their toes. I laughingly shared my relief that I'd come across at least one client I thought I could deal with.

Learning to Walk the Walk

Tina interrupted our giggles by entering and asking what I'd brought to wear. I gave her a strange look, reminding her that I was only there to observe. I had assumed that I'd be watching on the monitors, but she explained that I had to watch from within the room. She rummaged through another of her magic bags and produced three or four outfits that, together, bunched easily into one of her small hands. She told me to pick one and put it on, and then promptly left the room again.

I looked at the collection of ensembles and decided on the most relatively conservative combination. The only option that wasn't a G-string was a brown pair of stretch velour hot pants and a matching cropped tank top. I was feeling very nervous about the situation—almost coerced—but the threat of food stamps nagged at the back of my mind, while the fifty thou dangled in front of me like the proverbial carrot.

I took a deep breath and surveyed my nearly-naked self in the mirror. Actually, the outfit looked kick ass with my boots, and I may have felt like a brazen club kid were it not for my roiling gut.

I put my jeans and jacket on over the costume—not an easy feet with the boots on, mind you—and went out into the lobby to wait while the receptionist unlocked the door leading to the basement rooms. Immediately I was accosted by a moldy, underground stench that seemed unequivocally appropriate for a dungeon. Tangibly intertwined with the stink was the heavy scent of sweet incense. I descended the dark staircase, which, despite these smells, looked as if it could lead to any family's recreation room.

At the bottom, a large hallway led to a small area that looked like it was set up for lectures. A cheap podium and an assemblage of folding chairs accompanied a dry-erase board, complete with a generic message regarding a meeting. Tina had explained earlier that the dungeon masqueraded as a space for acting workshops whenever maintenance people needed to visit in order to protect clients' privacy.

Three doors lined the right side of the hallway. Tina instructed me to leave my street clothes on an old overstuffed chair set between two of them. Reminding myself of my college acting days, I attempted to get into character before I took my clothes off to meet some stranger. I wrestled with my jeans to pull them off over my boots, suddenly aware of being half naked in this stinky Chicago basement on a moldy, garage-sale chair, with a pant-leg comically hanging off one ankle. What the hell was I doing? I couldn't believe what I was about to subject myself to just to pay the fucking rent.

Meeting (and Beating) Client #1

Tina's voice sounded odd and throaty when she asked who was at the door. I murmured my name, and she opened the door to a scene that shocked me, despite an attempt to steel myself. There, laid out before me, was an attractive, well-built blonde man in his mid-to-late twenties with his bare buttocks resting on a folding chair. His ankles had been spread and shackled to a steel bar raised to the height of my chest. This position left him uncomfortably perched on the cold metal chair, genitals vulnerable and totally exposed.

My eyes were involuntarily drawn to his erect penis, and I remember detachedly thinking that its head was an almost perfect heart shape. This odd observation startled me, and I drew my eyes to the man's face. He leered at me, insolence from a slave to a mistress, and looked as if he had triumphed somehow by catching me looking.

Tina immediately asked him what he was smiling at, and told him to behave. He responded "Yes, Mistress Fire," and appeared dutifully remorseful. Tina now sounded very different, and her entire carriage and manner were slower and more purposeful. She had metamorphosed from a strange little mouse into a calculating, sinewy snake in moments. She slunk around the room preparing candles and equipment, and I noticed that her dowdy grey dress had covered a leather G-string, garter, and an odd criss-crossed leather thong contraption that substituted for a bra.

I was almost frightened by her demeanor as she nonchalantly suggested over one shoulder that the client needed to be respectful to Mistress Heather, as I could do all sorts of nasty things to him. And, she continued, wasn't he a lucky boy to have the two of us there? Of course, he responded, "yes, Mistress," and drew his eyes down respectfully to contemplate his penis.

Mistress Fire, now fully transformed, gave a deep, spooky, throaty, laugh—bad seventies horror-movie style. It was unbelievableand silly, yet chilling in the truest sense. I felt goose bumps in addition to my still-twisting insides. She walked over to the man slowly, shielding a candle with her hand, and asked him if he was ready. After his whispered acquiescence, she knelt down to place the candle next to her on the floor, which brought her face inches from his penis. She moaned in what sounded like pleasure, and asked me "don't you think his balls are pretty?"

I peered around his leg, and saw that she'd taken one of her leather thongs and tied his testicles tightly together. Mistress Fire moaned again, and grabbed one of the hanging leather ends with her teeth and tugged gently. The slave moaned in response, and looked to me expectantly. I had no idea of what he expected, and looked for a chair from which to observe as discreetly as possible. There were none, though, save the one from which the man was leering at me, so I leaned against the door with my arms crossed over my chest, and tried to appear as if this were a commonplace scene for me.

Mistress Fire asked if I'd please help her with the naughty slave by attaching miniature clothespins to his nipples. I was a bit confused, but felt I had no recourse. I attached them, again feeling the man's expectant look. I stared him straight in the eyes, trying to keep the vulnerability I felt from manifesting itself in my demeanor. I moved behind him, which allowed me to both have a better view of Mistress Fire and to avoid his glance.

The dominatrix picked up the candle and held it menacingly over the slave's genitals. She asked me if I thought he'd enjoy a little candle wax; I had no choice but to offer an "oh, yes." He took a deep, anticipatory breath of pleasure, and she turned the candlestick on its side, allowing the wax to drip down. His back arched in pain, and he shuddered while saying "red light," which meant that the pain was too intense to be pleasurable.

Mistress Fire pouted and asked if he was sure he couldn't handle it. He nodded, and she lifted the candle higher so that the next dose of wax would be cooler when it hit his skin. This time, he arched in pleasure and craned his head back to look piercingly at me as he licked his lips appreciatively.

She asked me to gently stroke the slave's nipples as she applied more wax. I felt glimmers of shame seeping into my resolve, but again felt as though I had no choice but to go through with what I had begun. I leaned over to touch the unknown man. Again, he craned his neck to stare at me, a gloss covering his eyes. I stroked his nipples, feeling unsure and dirty, but somewhat removed from myself. The dominatrix asked me to come around and hold the candle while she readied his next torture. I apparently held it too close, because the client cried out "red light" again two more times before he showed his pleasure.

Mistress Fire unshackled the man's ankles, and ordered him to a contraption they called the horse—a modified carpentry horse with a large, round log as the middle piece. She demanded that the client lean over the horse with his wrists reaching almost to the floor on the other side, and asked me to help her tie him to it. Because she was fastening his ankles, I was forced to tie his wrists, which meant that I had to kneel in front of him and feel once again the piercing gaze. I met it again, refusing to allow this man to make me feel more embarrassed. In retaliation for his challenge, I secured his wrists more tightly than necessary.

I stood, ready to remove myself from his line of vision, when Mistress Flame handed me a long leather thong and asked me to tie up his "cock-and-balls" again, since he'd liked it so much before.

I considered walking out, but realized that it would give the splayed jerk great satisfaction to have scared me off. This was all a game, anyway—a role play—and I refused to allow the arrogant client to win. While his gaze had initially made me want to flee, it now became the fuel that kept me going. I would remove the smartass look from his eyes and replace it with one of fear.

I roughly tied his genitals with the thong, tugging harder than necessary for his enjoyment and making sure not to actually touch him with my hands. I began to improvise, fastening the thong to the leg of the horse, ensuring that if he moved too much, he would be responsible for the pain it caused.

I then glared into his eyes, daring him to cross me again. I felt in character, and decided that if I was going to have to be a part of the scenario, I was certainly not going to be vulnerable to this pathetic being. I stared him down, putting my face close to his with what felt like a menacing smile, and yanked once at the thong attached at the horse. He yelped, and I smiled in satisfaction and raised myself to tower over him, close but not touching.

Mistress Fire grinned at me over his back and pulled out a paddle. I stepped around the horse to watch as she hit him hard once on his ass, leaving an obvious red mark. He cried out in surprise, and she rubbed where she'd smacked him. When she felt she had soothed him, she drew back the paddle again and it landed with a loud thud and a shriek of "red light" from the client. She twisted around so he could see her displeased look, and asked him why he was so fragile that day. He shrugged, but made no reply.

She smacked him hard one last time for good measure while still leaning over to observe his face. I saw his muscles tense and the skin on his buttocks reddening even more, but he made no protest. She stood up resolutely then, and put the paddle down, announcing that it was obviously time for "anal training."

At this point, I was so in character that I didn't even blanch when she asked me to hand her a small dildo out of the bag. I actually was kind of enjoying it at this point; I wanted the arrogant man to be humiliated for the way he had made me feel. Besides, it was what he had paid for. I wasn't getting any erotic satisfaction out of the game, but for the sake of retribution, quickly covered the dildo with a condom and handed it to her. Over her shoulder she asked that I go back upstairs and ask another mistress to find the wand for her. We were not quite out of ideas yet for our client.

I stepped out the door and was reassaulted by the basement stench. I quickly threw on my street clothes and cracked the door at the top of the stairs and called to the woman at the desk to bring me the requested equipment. She returned with an ominous-looking black case about the same size and shape as those which hold pool cues.

When I returned, Mistress fire had returned the client to the metal chair and was lowering the shackled bar with a mechanism that made an ominous industrial sound as it was lowered from the ceiling. She shackled him quickly and reached out for the case. I glared challengingly at the client as I handed it to her, not giving him a second to regain the upper hand. Mistress Fire pulled a black shaft out of the case, about twelve inches long, with a clear shallow glass cup attached at one end, and a cord attached to the other. When she plugged the cord into the wall, the cup came alive with a throbbing purple light and an intimidating electrical buzz. The client jumped visibly, and Mistress Fire and I smiled.

Though it's difficult to admit, I was enjoying his stricken look more than perhaps I should have. Mistress Fire must have sensed this, and handed the wand over to me, allowing the cold rubber cord to brush against his genitals. He again arched his back and shuddered in obvious pleasure, laced with fear. His eyes now held the look I'd wanted as I towered menacingly over him, brandishing this truly terrifying instrument. I reveled in the feeling of power for a minute before recognizing my own fear that this could possibly really hurt him.

Mistress Fire cooed to him that it wouldn't hurt him too much; it would just give a nice little shock "right where it feels the best." I took her word for it and waved it menacingly for a moment, and then applied it to the underside of his testicles.

The client jumped violently, slammed his back against the metal chair, and gave a loud cry. He did not, however, call out the code word, so I applied the wand once again, this time running it up his thigh until it met his genitals. He cried out in genuine pleasure, and I saw a pearl appear at the opening of his penis. He looked at me as I applied the wand a third time, and this time his gaze held none of the arrogance, but instead, complete submission.

As I heard Mistress Fire say that it was time for the session to end, I knew I'd beat him. We put away the wand and unshackled his hands to allow him to touch himself. As he stroked himself to orgasm, I watched him with a gaze he could not meet. I felt a very cold detachment towards his shudders of pleasure. When done, hurried and embarrassed, he quickly dressed, my eyes following his every movement. I felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

As she cleaned up the instruments and room after the client left, Tina asked what I thought. I answered that I wasn't sure, as it was definitely different from any experience I'd ever had. She smiled and assured me that I'd make a wonderful dominatrix, and once again squealed how much fun I'd have with the job. While I was still feeling shaken, I could now sort of see what she meant.

We returned to the lounge, where Tina told me to wait to join Mistress Lisette for another training session. I sank into one of the overstuffed couches with my reading material and pretended to read while my thoughts raced. I was no longer being accosted by glimmers of shame, but instead felt I was part of a new reality.

I thought to myself that I could leave now, but after the session had turned out the way it had, I wasn't sure I still felt the need to. While I had been a victim of sorts, coerced into behavior I hadn't been prepared for, I had made a sort of triumph out of it. I was confused by my conflicting feelings. I knew I could be good at the job, and had lost myself in the game while in the room. I'd held way more taxing jobs in the past. Remembering the health insurance, and the time that the nine-to-five hours would give me to be with my son, I decided to make it through the rest of the day and see how I felt that night.

Getting in Deeper with Client #2

Soon after coming to this decision, a beautiful woman walked in the door, smiled at me and introduced herself as Lisette. She had a dark complexion, long hair, beautiful eyes, an open demeanor, and a voluptuous figure that her dress hugged at every curve. She asked what I thought of the job so far. When I told her I still wasn't sure, she smiled knowingly and said that it really was fun once you got used to it.

She said that we had a great client waiting for us, and that she had to get her costume on. She rifled through her bag, pulling out an endless array of black in all different textures—vinyl, lace, fishnet, cotton, and leather. She chose a few and excused herself to the restroom off of the lounge to prepare.

When Mistress Lisette opened the door again, I felt an involuntary intake of breath. She was wearing fishnet stockings under a pair of skintight black vinyl hot pants with a matching vinyl halter-top. A pair of the most daunting platform heels I'd ever seen were on her feet, adding at least six more inches to her already tall stature and simultaneously forcing her ample buttocks skyward. She looked absolutely amazing and I felt decidedly mousy and pale, with my light coloring and brown velour getup. She through her dress over her costume and checked the mirror briefly, running a hand through her hair, and then asked if I was ready.

Once again I descended into the dungeon. Outside of door # 2, Lisette asked me to wait while she checked with the client to make sure it was okay that I come in. When I entered five minutes later, I saw a young man stretched out nude on the carpeted floor, peering up at me from in between Lisette's thighs. The walls were covered with a crude mural which attempted to give one the feel of being in a dark forest.

Mistress Lisette was raised imperiously on her high heels over the man, the crotch of her hot pants just inches from the man's face and he was laid under her, stroking his considerable erection while looking at her.

Mistress Lisette made introductions. She explained that our client was actually a very bad boy. "You see," she said, "he's engaged to my sister, who also works here, and he's popped in on her day off, because all he can think about is me. Isn't that right?" She gently stroked his face, and he silently nodded, his eyes wide. She asked him a series of questions about his thoughts about her and her sister, and each time he told her in a Scottish accent how much he wanted her. She giggled and called him her Scottish little boy, and asked him if he had learned any Spanish from her sister. They began speaking in Spanish, and although I could only understand a little, I knew they were discussing me.

Mistress Lisette told me that the client felt a bit uncomfortable with me just sitting and watching. She had been truly holding my attention, so I was surprised to look down and realize that the man was losing his erection. He had asked her if I could touch myself with his belt while he watched. Because she had aroused me, I truly didn't mind touching myself, although for a second I realized that Jay was probably also watching from the monitors in his office. I put the thought out of my head and gently tapped his belt against the velour covering me between my legs.

They resumed their talk, but it was apparent that he was distracted, and her attempts to excite him by talking dirty only embarrassed him. He sat up, and when he asked her to play with me, there was no trace of an accent at all. She looked at me questioningly, and I responded with a slight nod, actually very excited at the prospect. Mistress Lisette came and stood before me, pulled me from my chair, and turned me to face the client, positioning herself behind me. She began stroking my hair, commenting on how beautiful and soft it was. Her hands moved to my hips, and then she wrapped her arms around me and rubbed the sides of my stomach. She commented on how good I smelled, then asked if my carpet matched my drapes.

Confused, I pictured my apartment and told her I didn't have any drapes. Too late, I realized what she had meant and allowed her to think I meant I was shaved. This gave the dominatrix material to continue with, and she gushed about how she loved to go down on a shaved pussy. I felt myself cringe at her word choice, but played along for the client when she asked me how I enjoyed going down on women.

I looked over at him, now in the chair I had recently vacated, and saw his erection had returned. Mistress Lisette then took me over to a closet that she opened, revealing a giant wooden X in its recesses. She faced me against it and placed each arm high up on the wooden planks, asking my permission in a whisper. I again discreetly nodded and gripped the tops of the planks with my hands, then, after she prodded with her foot, spread my feet to meet the bottom of the X. She ran her hands up and down my body, caressing my ass and cooing how wonderful it was to the client.

She told him again how badly she wanted me, then told me she had a date with her boyfriend that night that she'd cancel if I wanted to come over and play. Despite the stirrings I was feeling, I assured myself I was only playing along for the client, and joined her in the talk of what we'd do to one another and how we'd enjoy it.

I heard an obvious sigh from the corner, and turned my head to see that the client was thoroughly enjoying himself. He asked Lisette to hand him a towel. She obliged, and for the second time that day, I watched as a total stranger brought himself to a shuddering orgasm in front of me.

Again, I was amazed at the detachment I felt as his body tensed and relaxed. I remember, too, noticing the shape of his penis objectively and wondering at my reaction. While Mistress Lisette had definitely aroused me, watching this man pleasure himself brought nothing but the realization that the session was over. I found this especially odd because, in my private life, watching my partner bring himself to orgasm really excites me.

I left the session feeling very confused by my reactions, both in relation to these anonymous men and in relation to Mistress Lisette, who had made me insane with wanting her to do what she had described. I felt dazed when I reentered the lounge, and considered calling it a day when Lisette burst back in, saying that we had a VIP session.

Moving on Up with Client #3

I'd been told about the other rooms upstairs, but hadn't seen them yet, as they were only for use with VIP clients. Lisette primped in the mirror momentarily, then grinned and asked if I was okay, as she hadn't known what I was comfortable with. I felt myself redden slightly, but told her it had been fine. She practically ran out the door, saying that Tina would let me know if and when it was okay to come up to the session.

I asked quickly if the last client was really engaged to her sister, thinking that it was really sad to have to do that job if it were true. She laughed and said "of course not," as she bounded out of the room, her dark hair flying behind.

As I mulled over what she'd told me in those few seconds, Mistress Rhapsody came back into the room. It was 4:30, and as she didn't have a session scheduled, she had already changed into her street clothes. The girl before me now looked like a prepubescent skate betty. On the street, no one would guess she was a dominatrix. Her jeans were huge, a far cry from the skintight trousers she'd worn over her costume, and swept over her big tennis shoes far past the usual hemline. She had a T-shirt on that she was drowning in, and had affixed a little flower barrette to the hair at one temple.

She grinned at me and asked how I was doing, and I offered a noncommittal "fine." She began cleaning up the lounge, clearing food containers from the table, wiping down the tabletops, and gathering the garbage. I grabbed a couple of sacks, no doubt full of some disgusting refuse from the freshly cleaned session rooms, and helped her carry them out the back door to the dumpsters.

When we returned, Tina met me with keys and instructions to go up to the session. When I ascended, I found a posh apartment, stark white, with plush, overstuffed modern black furniture. The art on the walls was garish but expensive, and fit the décor. I put my things on the counter of a sparkling clean, fully outfitted kitchenette, and looked at the clock on the coffeepot. I wondered whether my boyfriend had picked my son up from school on time. Quietly, I lifted the receiver on the nearby phone, dialed home, and spoke with him, finding that my son was safe and sound. My boyfriend asked how it was going, knowing how apprehensive I had been the night before. I only answered that I had to go, and hung up the phone.

I took a deep breath, my millionth that day, and walked down a hallway to stand outside a door from which murmuring and slapping sounds were emanating. The phone call had reminded me of my other reality, and I told myself again about the money and health benefits so as to fight the urge to turn around and leave. I knocked and forced myself back into character.

Mistress Lisette called for me, and I opened the door onto a beautifully decorated bedroom. It, too, was stark white, but had soft, flowered curtains that matched the bedspread on a brass bed. The carpeting was plush, unlike the utilitarian coverings in the basement, and the room was spotless, save for the neatly draped men's clothing on a prim velvet chair across the room. I crossed to the chair and sat, careful not to crush the clothes next to me, and then surveyed the room for Mistress Lisette and the client.

They were in the corner by the door, so I had missed them as I walked in. She had him bent over a horse identical to the one in the basement, and she grinned at me over his red ass as she spanked him again with the paddle. She demanded that he behave, as she refused to be embarrassed by a slave's insolence in front of another mistress. He responded "Yes, Mistress," breathlessly, as if it were a chant. I'd heard him saying it from outside the door a moment ago; it was apparent that chanting this was part of his fantasy.

Mistress Lisette demanded that he stand up so that I could see her good little slave. He obliged by standing up to face the wall. She demanded that he turn around, asking how I could possibly decide his worth if I couldn't see his erection. He stood before me, looking down like a chastised schoolboy. She pointed out his good features, but said he was in trouble because he hadn't been to see her lately. After each statement, she asked "isn't that right?" and he chanted the breathless "yes, Mistress," again and again.

As he stood before me, I realized he was a truly handsome man—too pretty for my taste, but surely he had no problems attracting women. He didn't come to the dungeon for that reason, but because it was the only place that he could truly give up control to someone else. It was obvious by his manicure, haircut, and the expensive clothes next to me that this man was an executive of some sort. He also had a magnificent erection.

Mistress Lisette asked me to stand, and then asked the client what was wrong with him—another mistress had entered the room and he had not given her the proper respect. "Yes, Mistress," was his reply as he got down on his hands and knees and began kissing my boots. Lisette said that because of the infraction, kissing them wasn't enough. He had to lick them.

I noticed as he obeyed her that he was truly excited by doing so, and passionately kissed and licked my boots as if he were with a lover. Moans escaped from his lips, and I looked up, surprised, at Lisette. She grinned mischievously at me over the crouched figure, winked, and then demanded the slave stop. He whimpered as if a favorite toy had been taken from him, and stopped with his face still next to my boots.

Lisette made him rise up, but stay on his knees with his hands behind his back while I sat back in the chair a few feet from him. She then continued to comment on his physical virtues as she paced behind his kneeling form, slapping him on the ass with the paddle and tapping his erection every now and then, making it bob.

He seemed in exquisite longing each time she touched him in any way. He whimpered and whispered, "Yes, Mistress," to each word she directed at him. While he knelt there, she walked over and leaned against my chair, starting to talk about mundane things. After we talked about her new shoes, she looked over and saw his erection had begun to wane. She yelled at him to stand up and remedy the situation, as she would not be embarrassed by her slave. He chanted as he kneaded himself back to full erection in a moment.

Mistress Lisette next ordered him go to the closet and find some pretty panties to put on as humiliation for having lost his erection. He picked a pair of red silk panties from a closet that spanned the entire room and was filled with silks, satins, and frills. She ordered him to stand before me and dared him to lose his erection again.

She went to the closet herself and pulled out a contraption made of black straps and a dildo. She pulled this on over her hot pants, making it appear as though she had an erection of her own, then demanded that the client kneel and suck her "cock." He knelt and began pulling at the dildo with his mouth in earnest. Again he was moaning in pleasure, and his erection was pulling the fabric of his silk panties from his skin with its pressure.

Looking up at Lisette I was surprised to find her grinning at me again over his head. She was obviously having fun playing with him, and she winked again as she demanded he stop as there was no way a stupid slave could ever please her like that. Menacingly, she ordered him to crawl to the bathroom, lean over the toilet, and wait for her.

Returning to the closet, she pulled out a rubber dildo. She then made a face and called me over; the dildo had an old condom on it. Apparently some mistress had used it and not cleaned it. Lisette looked disgusted and left the room, returning in a moment with another one and a fresh condom, which she handed to me. As I unrolled the condom over the graduating ridges of the dildo, stretching it to its fullest at the huge base, I heard her in the bathroom teasing the client. "I'm gonna fuck you in the ass," she said, "and you're gonna love it." He chanted his reply as I brought the dildo to her and positioned myself in the doorway.

Mistress Lisette had the client hunched over the toilet with his face against the tank and his buttocks in the air. She made him beg for it as she placed her hand on his back to hold him still, and began twisting the graduated rubber cock into him, all the while demanding to know how much he loved it while he chanted "Yes, Mistress," again and again, each time with more intensity.

Abruptly, she pulled it out of him, exclaiming that he had gotten her toy all dirty. She examined the feces on the dildo, and held it up to me to prove how dirty it was. To humiliate the client further, she demanded that he clean it. He looked stricken and questioned her with his eyes. She told him to lick it clean, to which he did not whisper "Yes, Mistress," but only shook his head. Realizing that she had taken the game further than the client had cared to go, she backed down and told him that he couldn't get fucked anymore as his punishment.

She smacked the client hard on his ass, then ordered him back to the bedroom. We walked out behind him and I noticed how red his buttocks were. I thought to myself that he might be getting off now, but tomorrow he would probably be sore.

Mistress Lisette explained to me that it was time for our slave to finish for himself, but that he had a talented way of doing it. She instructed him to lie on the ground and asked me to stand over his head facing towards his feet. She knelt next to his left thigh and told me that, at her signal, I was to grab his feet as he brought them toward me. In this way, he could catch his own semen in his mouth as he came. I'd never seen such acrobatics, and was interested to watch the final result.

As I stood over the client, watching him knead himself furiously, I realized that he was staring up in between my legs. Wanting this to reach its conclusion, I mimicked Lisette's pose earlier and lowered myself until my crotch was inches from his face. With a yelp, he pulled into fetal position. I stood quickly to catch his legs while Lisette cradled his back, and he ejaculated almost all of the semen directly into his mouth. I patted his legs as I let them go to the floor, stepped over him, and left the room.

Taking Stock of the Day

It seemed that every time I left a session I was more confused. I had never seen anything like that before, and Lisette had put on an incredible performance. The client had wanted to be humiliated, and she gave him that, but I didn't understand his need. I suppose I was glad that he had a safe way to fulfill his fantasies, but it was disturbing, nonetheless. I felt very detached as I put my clothes back on and returned to the lounge.

I gathered my things together, and Jay called me into the office to ask me what my decision was. I felt disoriented, and told him I needed to think about it that night. He grinned and said okay, but told me that I had done a good job and that he'd love to have me. I smiled my thanks and left the office. Lisette was just entering, and I complimented her on her performance. She smiled and thanked me, obviously pleased.

The second shift had arrived; the lounge was filled with primping women. Another beautiful woman with long dark hair introduced herself as Hannah and welcomed me to the dungeon. I thanked her, but told her I wasn't sure it was for me. She looked surprised when I asked her if she had known it was for her right away.

"Oh, yeah," she said, explaining that she had always been into S&M and bondage/domination in her personal life and was just thrilled to be able to get off and get paid for it. I had no other reply than "Oh." I excused myself to the restroom to shed the costume. I dressed and folded it neatly, wishing I could launder it before I returned it, and put it near Tina's bags.

On the street, the setting sun accosted me. I looked around blindly and made out a woman waiting by the door with a bouquet of roses. She was very butch, and looked impatient until the door swung open and Rhapsody appeared. The woman handed her the bouquet, and she took them nonchalantly with a bored "thank you" and a peck on the cheek. I said hello, and we all stood waiting for a cab. I offered the first one to them, but they declined, and I gratefully entered the taxi, alone with my thoughts for the first time.

I was trying to assimilate what I'd been through that day, and very little made sense to me. It truly seemed like an entirely different dimension, some twilight zone. Had I really just done those things?

When I left the house that morning, I'd only planned on watching from some distant monitor, but instead I'd spent my day helping men get off. That wasn't far from prostitution in my eyes, though Jay claimed differently. I felt very removed and disoriented, and hadn't decided whether or not to go back.

When the cab dropped me off at my apartment door, and once I'd paid the driver, I burst into tears. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't the relief of seeing my boyfriend and having someone to comfort me. I think it was the realization that I'd assumed a different persona for the day, and upon reentering my own, recognized that it didn't suit me. I felt there was absolutely no way I could go back to that the next day without somehow losing a part of me in the process, though I wasn't sure why.

I feel that, for those who enjoy it, dungeons are a safe way for people to explore that part of their sexuality. The human sex drive is natural and beautiful, and if something feels good and hurts no one, people should go for it. I do not, however, feel that a dungeon is the place for me. Perhaps it is an abusive past that made me feel so ashamed afterwards, or maybe it is just not as much a part of my sexuality as it is for others.

I'm still confused, however, by my mixed reactions. I was aroused many times that day, but arrived home in tears. I suppose that it is possible that this is a part of me, but I'm unable to get past the guilt to enjoy it. It felt more, however, as though I were in a place, physically and emotionally, that I was not supposed to be in. I don't feel that I'm sexually repressed, but it is probable that I felt what I did because these people were strangers. Even an anonymous fuck is more intimate than that.

Still, many frequent the dungeons who no doubt don't carry away the same dirty feeling I did upon leaving. The mistresses seem to genuinely love their jobs—it's never boring or the same—and the customers leave pleased and relatively safely satisfied. For lifestylers, I understand that S&M and B&D can be very fulfilling and, if done correctly, can be a respectful, loving way of handing over control to someone as an act of trust. I just choose to share that in other ways.

Later that evening, despite my confusion, or maybe because of it, my boyfriend and I had the most phenomenal sex we'd had in a long time. I allowed the images and thoughts that had aroused me into my fantasies, but kept my actions where I felt secure—in my bed with an intimate partner.

I write this from my family's computer in my small hometown where I'm saving up money to return to New Orleans. There, I'll bartend happily for my pay—late weekend hours, drunk patrons, and all—and keep the sex at home. [ L i P ]

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