Hi there! I’ve been threatening to post the first chapter of my domme memoir for quite some time. Here it is! (Finally.) A caveat: do understand that I’m introducing myself as a once novice in the BDSM scene. I might come off as a bit judgmental in this first chapter. That’s intentional.
The idea is to show how I changed over the course of the book. As I became more experienced as a dominatrix, I developed a deeper understanding of kink and became much less judgmental. This is especially true when I started experimenting as a sub in my personal life. Anyway, here it goes.
I’d been sitting in my old Honda Civic for a while, procrastinating about getting out. I eyed the house across the road from me, a modest, single-family home: my destination. The street lamps overhead flickered, casting an uneasy glow on this unassuming Hollywood neighborhood, and my nervousness just got worse.
Was I ever going to get out of here and go inside? The house looked so normal from here. It could have easily been mistaken for any other residence on the block. There was nothing special about it, no overt sign conveying its secret within.
A dungeon? In a house like that? Who would have guessed? Even in a place as eccentric as Hollywood, the concept of a dungeon in such a residence wasn’t exactly expected. I certainly didn’t expect it. In fact, that a dungeon could exist in such a house was mind-boggling.
When I first learned that dominatrixes met with their clients in dungeons, I had envisioned something totally different. Basements with cold, stone walls and concrete floors came to mind, fit with cages and torture racks a la The Inquisition. But after following the directions here tonight, I found myself parked in front of a regular home in a quiet Hollywood neighborhood. The only thing that made the house look different from any other home on the block was the solitary blue lightbulb hanging over the door, which cast an eerie cobalt shade over the scene.
Was I ready to venture into whatever lay beyond that doorway? At that moment, I preferred my car’s cracked vinyl interior. Still, I’d come all the way here tonight. Let’s get on with it.
I made my way across the street, my high heels tapping rhythmically on the asphalt, each clack distinct amidst the backdrop of the nearby 101 Freeway’s persistent drone. I mustered my resolve as I approached the house. I needed all the strength I had to go through with this.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, then awkwardly waited on the doorstep. I felt like an idiot.
I hoped that I at least looked the role. I’d worn my most “dominatrix-y” clubwear—a pair of black vinyl pants and a matching jacket. I wanted to at least appear to know what I was doing. These clothes were from the evenings I spent in nightclubs. I was shooting a documentary, centered around Latino rock bands, and was in clubs almost every night of the week.
If following these rock bands had drawn me out of my comfort zone, leading me to night spots across the city, often in seedy neighborhoods, I was still unprepared for this. “This” meaning going to a party in a dungeon and trying my hand as a dominatrix.
Despite my shiny, black clothing, I was hardly “domme” material. Quite honestly, I was a nerd. And though I might dream that I was a seasoned clubgoer—a “clubkid”—the reality was I was a shy introvert.
Maybe that was why no one was answering the door. I didn’t belong here. But I couldn’t get myself to turn around and go back home either. I needed to become a dominatrix because my day job just wasn’t cutting it, bills-wise. I couldn’t afford to keep shooting this documentary if I didn’t get some extra funding. I was up to my ears in credit card debt. I’d have to shelve my project if I didn’t figure out something quickly.
A solution had fallen into my lap a week ago. I met S.K. at a concert, and she said she was a writer who worked as a dominatrix on the side. When she told me how much money she earned, I couldn’t believe it. Beat and humiliate men for money like that? Sign me up!
The drama and disguise of the dominatrix’s appearance drew me in—the over-the-top clothing, the heavy makeup, the ruby-red, painted-on smile... What was there not to like about it? But then reality set in. Someone like me becoming a domme? I just wasn’t mean enough.
Still, my need for cash won over my doubts. S.K. said she earned serious money doing this. My interest was piqued. I asked her if she thought I could do it, too.
“Why not?” she said. Then she mentioned a party that was taking place the following week at the dungeon where she worked.
I could meet the headmistress and ask if she’d train me. Cut to a week later, and there I was, standing on the doorstep of this “dungeon.” Echoes of electronic music seeped through the door. No wonder no one was answering my knocks. This was 1997, long before ubiquitous cell phones. I could be standing outside here for hours if no one noticed me.
I tried to peer through the windows, but black curtains concealed the glass. That meant no one inside could see me out here, either. As the seconds turned to minutes, my embarrassment only amplified. This was such a familiar narrative. I might strive to be a star on the nightclub circuit, but the real me felt like a tag-along, a wallflower. An imposter.
I was always hoping for acceptance from the “cool kids.” Feeling ignored at this moment just reminded me of the rejection I so often experienced in life. I should turn around and go home right now. It was a mistake to come here tonight.
I was about to do just that when, as if out of nowhere, a figure appeared behind me. She was dressed in white latex, a kinky nurse’s outfit. Her confidence astounded me. She didn’t hesitate at the door. She walked right up, reached for the doorknob, and with a twist, revealed that the door had been unlocked all along.
A rush of humiliation flushed through me. What an idiot I was! I marveled at the self-doubt that had kept me locked to this doorstep, unable to move, but this woman’s appearance and the now open door filled me with new determination. I followed her inside the house and closed the door behind me.
I was in. But the problem was it was dark inside the house, and the woman had disappeared. As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, a pungent odor assaulted my nostrils. It was the scent of bodies.
As I inched slowly forward, my knee hit something—or rather, someone. I could just make out a man crouched on all fours on the floor, and I realized I’d almost tripped over him.
On closer inspection, I saw more men, all of them down on all fours. And oh my goodness, they were all naked! That was where the smell was coming from. It was the odor of naked male bodies.
I’d never been in the presence of a naked man I wasn’t romantically involved with before—and I’d definitely never been around a dozen naked men I was not romantically involved with. And no, I’d never been around a dozen or so naked men down on all fours on the floor, either. I was shocked.
While I knew submissive men would be in attendance tonight, I’d assumed they’d be clothed. As I studied these naked men the best I could in the dim light, I saw they were all different shapes and sizes. Some were fat, some were skinny, some were tall, and some were short. Some were old enough to be my dad, and others, my granddad.
As I continued to creep deeper into this place, past all the naked men on fours, I finally reached a wall of black curtains. I reached ahead and split the curtains open, finding myself in a new area of the house.
This was where all the action was taking place—where the dining room would be were this an ordinary home. I saw what looked like a dining table, but no one was sitting at it. Various women in fetish clothing were bent over it, doing something...
As I neared the table, I tried to discern what they were up to. A man lay on the table, and the women were all spreading something white onto his naked form with spatulas. One of the women appeared to be the leader of this activity. She was petite—tiny, really— with platinum-blond hair and wearing a short, black-latex dress and knee-high leather boots. She lit a candle and began to drop melted wax onto the guy’s chest, and all the women broke out into “Happy Birthday.”
This was definitely not what I’d pictured of a “dungeon party.” I envisioned an assortment of women, maybe a few dressed in leather, and guys, well, dressed normally, standing around a drinks table with bottles of Bacardi and Coke on top of it, chatting in a civilized manner. Maybe there might be one guy giving a woman a foot rub. Maybe there’d be a whipping performance, like at the goth club I frequented. But weird stuff wouldn’t just be, well, happening.
I asked one of the women what was going on.
“We’re making this slave into a birthday cake,” she said.
Oh, they were spreading frosting on his body. She offered me a spatula. I demurred. I was suddenly desperate to find S.K., a reference point in this house of “freakish” behavior. I moved past the scene in the “dining room,” down a corridor toward one of the back bedrooms where the kids would sleep if a family lived here.
I peeked into the room and saw a contraption on the wall: two pieces of wood affixed together in the shape of an “X” and painted burgundy. A woman was there with a man. She was dressed in a red PVC dress, and he in jeans and a plaid shirt. She began to hum the typical ditty associated with a striptease, and I watched the guy remove his clothes in time with the song. Soon, he was naked like the other men at this party.
I asked the woman if she knew where S.K. was.
“Last time I saw her, she was using the bathroom,” she said.
I backtracked down the corridor to the bathroom I’d passed along the way, only to find it empty. S.K. was nowhere to be found. I finally located her in the kitchen, where I saw her emerge from a corner carrying a funnel. A stout man with a bowl-cut hairstyle followed behind her, sputtering furiously as if he’d just taken a sip of spoiled milk.
“Stop that, imbecile,” S.K. said. “You should be happy to drink my nectar.”
When she noticed my presence, she exclaimed excitedly, “You came!”
“What are you doing with this guy?” I asked.
“I just gave him a golden shower,” she said.
“A golden wha—?” I blurted.
Yes, I knew what she was talking about—it just shocked me that she was actually doing that with one of these guys. But what astounded me most was seeing her give the man a glass of water to quell his coughing fit. I thought dominatrixes were only mean to their slaves, never kind. I know—not a great start for an aspiring dominatrix. I didn’t understand the dominatrix/slave dynamic one bit.
Another one of the naked men was hovering near. He had a rotund gut, his member hidden beneath the swell of his belly. I laughed at the sight of him.
“Thank you,” he said.
He was thanking me for laughing at him? This was insane!
I turned to S.K., who had just finished helping her “sub” drink water. “What am I allowed to do to these guys?” I asked.
“Anything you want,” she said.
I turned to the man and declared: “Go away!” He skittered off. As I said, not a good start for a woman who wanted to dedicate herself to this craft.
Yes, the power of the dominatrix excited me. Not in a sexual way, but the rebellion was enticing. I found it delightfully bizarre that you could beat up men, and not only would they be willing to let you, but they’d even kiss your feet after—maybe even buy you a bottle of expensive French perfume. There didn’t seem to be anything that wasn’t fabulously cool about being a dominatrix, except everything was so weird and even kind of gross. Could I actually do this job? Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this, but my need for fast money overpowered any qualms I might have about being here. Learning to do this job seemed like my only solution at this point.
I followed S.K. to another room where several women were reclining while their feet received tender attention from the naked men. The men knelt before the women, their hands working carefully to dole out foot massages.
I recognized the blonde who had been leading the frosting of the “man cake” earlier. Again, I noticed that she was quite thin, almost fragile. She contradicted my view of what I envisioned a dominatrix to be. When she spoke with a spacey, sweet lilt as she greeted me, I immediately felt comfortable with her.
She introduced herself as Mistress A., none other than the headmistress of this dungeon.
“Sit down with us,” she said.
I assented—but was I actually going to let one of these naked dudes rub my feet? If I’d never been around a naked man I wasn’t romantically involved with, then I’d never been touched by a naked man I wasn’t romantically interested in. No, not even on my feet.
And just as I feared, one of the guys asked for permission to massage my toes. He was in his twenties, not much older than me. He was also quite handsome. I acquiesced to letting him touch my feet, but only because he wasn’t bad-looking. Anyways, I was here to become a domme, right? I better buck up and start acting like one.
Still, as his fingers traced delicate patterns across my feet, a wave of discomfort washed over me. He was a stranger! As his fingers pressed deeper into my flesh, the sensation only increased my nerves. I tried to compensate for my anxiety by engaging in small talk with him. I asked what line of work he was in, and he said he was a fireman.
His chest was well-built. He really had a great body. I asked him what he was doing here. Surely, he could meet women other ways.
I know—I had a lot of preconceived notions about male submissives at the time, assuming they were all unfortunate souls who sought out humiliation as the only type of attention they could get from women. His response caught me off guard.
“I tend to be arrogant, so I must be reminded of my place.”
That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I didn’t have time to ask him to explain more as another man approached. The new naked dude asked if he could serve as my “bar stool” while I received my foot rub. Oh, wow.
He positioned himself on all fours below me. Did I really want to sit my butt down on his bare back? I really didn’t want that kind of contact with this guy, but again, I was there to become a domme. I might as well go through with this.
I sat on his back, feeling lucky the vinyl barrier of my pants separated our flesh. The man served as my makeshift “bar stool” while Chris continued his massage. But then my human “bar stool” did something truly shocking. He began to lick one of my high heels on the carpet beside me.
My reaction was visceral. A shriek escaped my lips, and I nearly tumbled off the guy’s back. I’d worn those heels outside on the filthy city streets! My screech didn’t phase my “bar stool,” though. He continued to lick my high heel—but his behavior still astonished me.
Before I could ponder it more, Chris suddenly made an incredible demand. Perhaps emboldened by giving me this foot rub, he asked if I’d be willing to paddle him. It was Mistress A.’s birthday, after all.
Now I understood the purpose of the “man cake” and the “Happy Birthday” song. However, I hadn’t anticipated inflicting physical punishment on anyone tonight.
Yes, I was there to become a dominatrix, but, wow, I didn’t know I was actually going to have to participate in dominating anyone. Yup, I’m not sure how I thought I would become a domme without doing what dommes do: beating men. And there was Chris saying it would be fitting to receive thirty-one whacks, one for each year of Mistress A.’s age.
I turned to S.K., a familiar face in this unfamiliar place. “Should I do it?” I asked her.
Her advice was clear: “You should try it out.”
The first strike was the weirdest. As I felt the paddle come into contact with Chris’ flesh, I knew the swat must have hurt—but he barely flinched! Had someone done that to me, I would have turned around and immediately retaliated. Like I would have punched them in the face.
Instead, Chris counted one, and then I struck him again. He continued to count the blows as I doled them out. Then he really left me dumbfounded. He thanked me for paddling him. And he called me “Mistress.”
If I couldn’t fathom taking such strikes myself, I definitely could never imagine being appreciative of it. My mind swirled with so many emotions: shock, a little disgust, and also a bit of pride. I’d pushed my boundaries tonight, and I felt good about it.
I was more courageous than I ever thought. I did feel powerful. I was suddenly happy that Chris had asked me to beat him. Riding this high—the excitement of pushing myself to do something new, something shocking—I marched straight over to Mistress A. and asked if I could come work at the dungeon. She said she was always looking for new girls to train and I should swing by during the daytime hours.
I left the dungeon party that night, telling myself I’d try this job. I’d just do it for a few months, make the necessary money, then quit. Working as a dominatrix would just be a temporary fix, an experiment.
Little did I know that I would go on to work as a pro-domme for years, and it would completely change my life. I look forward to telling you all about it over the coming year that I’ll be writing this book.
Yes, you’re absolutely right! Thanks for reading. ♥️
Very interesting beginning of what tirned.out to be a long career. Good work!