Longform

A South Florida Dominatrix Indulges in the Gray Area of the Law

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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.

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.

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.

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 Super Glue. 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 reattached 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 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.


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Gavin, Lera