I’ve been toying with the idea of becoming a pro dominatrix for a while now. I’ve had a few slaves in the past: a British cash pig who paid my rent in exchange for degrading emails, and some sissy lawyer who had to ask my permission in order to cum. I even briefly had a lifestyle slave who would come over and do my housework. He’d scrub the toilet while my girlfriends and I shouted abuse at him or spat in his mouth or made him wear our underwear—whatever. However those relationships all quickly fizzled, mainly because I’d freak whenever a situation pushed past my comfort zone, aka training-bra-level domina stuff.
A couple months ago, a fetishist friend of mine gave me the number of Mistress Dee, a prominent New York dominatrix. He said if I really wanted to become a successful domme I should spend some quality time with her, adding that Mistress Dee is “New York’s reigning queen of forced-bi.” Forced-bi is when you make straight guys suck cock as a form of degradation, and since not all dommes do this, it’s sort of a big deal. So I decided to call up the Mistress and ask if I could tag along with her for a few days, hoping the experience would help me decide if the pro-domme life was truly what God or Satan or whoever had always intended for me. To my surprise, she said yeah, she would love to have me. She said quite a few of her clients are into having “civilians” observe their sessions—I guess it adds to the humiliation factor—so this arrangement could work out for her too.
My first visit to Dee’s home is at three on a Tuesday afternoon to watch what her email described as a “1-hour in-person w/ male submissive.” She answers the door wearing a sheer red thong and nothing else. Wavy chestnut hair, porcelain skin, huge tits for someone so petite. “Cool, you’re not ugly,” she says and motions for me to come in.
Dee’s place is a spacious studio apartment in the West Village with wooden floors and an antique fireplace, Björk playing from her laptop. “Just to warn you,” she says between swishes of Listerine, “the guy sort of looks like a troll. Like he’s old and short and has this weird hunchback thing. I think it might be scoliosis? Whatever, he’s harmless. Oh, and he’s super into latex,” she says as she pulls a black latex military dress and matching knee-high boots from her closet. The dress is so impossibly tight it takes her nearly ten minutes to squeeze into it. I’m finding it difficult to speak, mesmerized by her giant breasts. “All ready!” she shouts when she’s finally dressed, then, “Oh shit, I forgot I have to piss on him,” and runs to the kitchen to chug three glasses of water.
When the doorbell rings Mistress Dee instructs me to hide in the bathroom and not to come out until she says so. She says the slave doesn’t know I’m here and she wants him to be surprised. So I wait in the bathroom with my ear pressed against the door, feeling excited or nauseous or both, I can’t tell. Soon I hear what sounds like a belt being undone and shoes coming off. I hear Dee’s muffled voice saying, “I did a three-hour dungeon session last night, and these boots got pretty filthy. Now be a good boy and make them sparkle for me.” A few minutes later she calls my name and I emerge from the bathroom feeling sort of like a stripper popping out of a birthday cake. I find the slave naked on all fours, aggressively lapping up the myriad day-old bodily fluids from Dee’s boots. “Oh, I forgot to say, I have a friend over,” she giggles. “You may greet her.” He crawls over to me—panting, shaking, sweating, drooling—and gently kisses my bare feet. I try not to laugh but fail.
Dee reaches into her bedside table and produces a tool consisting of two parallel metal bars clamped together at their ends. (She later informs me this is called a humbler, “because it humbles.”) “This will put you in your rightful place,” she grins as she grabs the slave’s balls and pulls them back toward his ass, clamping the base of his scrotum into the center of the bars, which sit horizontally behind his thighs. “Now try and stand,” she says teasingly. He makes a feeble attempt to extend his legs and collapses to the floor in pain. This happens a few more times, each collapse followed promptly by a “Thank you, Mistress.” Eventually she pulls what’s left of him up off the floor and rides him around like a horse for a while, giving him some vague verbal encouragement but mainly just looking absently at her nails. She sort of flips back and forth between being really “in it” and being obviously bored. At one point she’s literally whipping his balls with one hand and texting with the other.
Somewhere around the half-hour mark Dee leads the slave to the bathroom and orders him to lie supine on the shower floor. I sit on the toilet and watch as she crouches over his shriveled body and begins pissing into his open mouth. Her bladder control is incredible. She has the ability to pee until the exact moment his mouth is full to the brim with urine, stop and wait while he swallows, and then begin her flow again, all with total ease. It’s amazing to watch. Only once does a tiny trickle of pee escape his mouth and drip down his cheek, at which point Dee shouts furiously, “DO NOT WASTE ANY OF MY PRECIOUS URINE!” The slave apologizes profusely.
Somewhere in the middle of all this I find myself thinking, Wait, is this like weird or gross or something?,but then quickly convince myself that no, it isn’t, or that even if it is I don’t care, and go back to fiddling with the toilet paper. When she’s done, Dee shoves her foot far down the guy’s throat and says, “That a boy, you’re a good little toilet, aren’t you?” And he nods his head yes, yes I am.
Back in the bedroom Dee and I share a box of Godiva chocolates on her bed. The slave crawls over and positions himself as our footstool, but because of his weird back-hump thing his body forms a stool that’s more rounded than flat. “Oh my God, drop your hunchback down!” she shouts, clearly disgusted. “We literally have to crane our legs to rest them on you… ugh!” then she rolls her eyes and laughs and pops another chocolate into her mouth, like, no big deal.
“So this one time,” she says, licking her red, glossy lips, “this guy offered me $10,000 for a two-day session. It was so fucked up. He wanted me to stage a fake sex change where I turned him into me. But he wanted it to be as true to life as possible, so like in a medical room with fake injections, pills, fake implants, a makeup artist, wig, everything. This would then lead to a live burial in cement, involving breathing tubes and shit.”
“I know, right? The thing is, all of this—BDSM, humiliation, degradation, sensory deprivation—it’s about getting outside yourself. And when it’s good it can be an out-of-body experience. For some people it’s about separating themselves from reality so much that they cease to exist. I guess the fake sex change was just the furthest extension of that.”
“But you said no?”
“I had to. I just didn’t feel like I could be in total control. Like, what if this guy really wanted to die? I can’t be dealing with that. Domming is all about control. I call the shots. Like, if I can tell a sub is looking at me all pervy, that makes me want to put on more clothes. But if he’s really focused on being subservient and catering to my desires, that makes me want to use him as a toilet. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I nod, “totally.”
When we’re done eating, Dee orders the slave to jerk off onto a paper plate, then proceeds to spoon-feed him his own cum, swooshing the jizz-filled spoon around like it’s an airplane each time before shoving it into his mouth. When the plate’s clean he quietly excuses himself, freshens up, and gets dressed. He’s normal again. And before he leaves he gets down on his knees and thanks her. But this time it’s different—less role-play, more honest. You can tell he really means it, his eyes damp with tears. And for a second it feels like he loves her.
I awake the next day after a night of flulike dreams in which I’m swimming naked with my brother in a giant toilet. Mysteriously, there is more gooey stuff in my underwear than normal. I decide to make a little bit more of an effort to dress the part today, so I put on the most fetishy-looking outfit I own: a black leather skirt from high school that I’m now too fat for, and a black tank top with lots of zippers on it that’s supposed to look bondage but might actually be more Claire’s.
I arrive at Dee’s apartment around noon. She’s midsession with a middle-aged Hasidic Jew who, she had previously informed me, is into public humiliation and chastity. He’s naked except for a pair of zebra-print panties and some studded leather handcuffs. Dee’s sitting at the edge of her bed, applying red lipstick to his pursed lips, saying over and over, “What a pretty little slut you are!” I sit down next to her and she looks me in the eyes and smiles so sweetly, and even though we’ve only met once I sort of feel like we’re best friends. She’s really different than I expected, not evil or man-hating. She’s more… I don’t know… nice? funny? self-aware? One of those. “Come on, slut,” she says, patting the slave’s head, “show my friend your pussy.” And so the slave pulls down his panties to reveal his dick, which is locked in a plastic chastity belt, the pressure of which has turned his balls the color of raw meat. “I call it a woo-woo,” he smiles, displaying a mouthful of lipsticked teeth. Aww, I think, total cute alert.
I instantly like this slave better than yesterday’s. He’s supergoofy and smiley, like an overgrown Muppet. Like he could easily be the favorite science teacher at a high school or something. I can’t explain it, but as I sit here, watching him deep-throat Dee’s bright green strap-on, I sort of want to give the guy a hug.
The three of us leave Dee’s apartment and walk to a nearby sex shop. Once inside, Dee orders the slave to take off his coat, then scribbles the word SLUT across his chest in red lipstick. They browse the store together, picking out a pair of fishnet thigh-highs and a rainbow-colored penis lollipop. At the checkout counter Dee gives him a knowing stare, and he immediately bursts into song, singing a little jingle I can only assume was composed for this very moment.
I’ve got all holes available
Tell all your friends I’m salable
I want to be used, abused, bent over your dinner table
A faggy slut with all holes available
The slave sings this through a couple times, looking sort of embarrassed but also sort of like he’s about to cum. I’m clutching the wall for support, about to collapse with laughter. The cashier—an obese black guy with gold teeth—is completely unfazed. He’s seen this a million times. “All riiight, man,” he says, nodding in slow motion. “Whateeever you say.”
Back at the apartment, the slave puts on his new stockings and shows them off by twirling around the room like a ballerina. I lie on the bed and watch as Dee unlocks his chastity belt and begins fucking his ass hard with the penis pop. He jerks off. Finally he cums onto the lollipop, which Dee then forces him to eat. And as I sit here, watching the Hasid suck sloppily on his rainbow dick, bubbles of jizz and feces pouring from his lips, all I can think is, I’ve never felt so right.
It’s my final day with Dee. The original plan was to go to a dungeon in midtown that she sometimes rents to beat the shit out of a police officer. However, the dungeon is closed due to an overnight snowstorm so Dee relocates the session to her house. I’m sort of bummed, as I was looking forward to a session in an actual BDSM dungeon with torture chairs and medical rooms and everything, but she assures me the day will be fun anyway.
I arrive at Dee’s apartment to find a 30-ish guy sitting on the floor in a diaper, sucking a pacifier and (pretend?) crying. Dee introduces him as her bad little boy, warning me that he’s about to get a vicious spanking. I shrug like whatever, then lie on Dee’s bed and check my emails while she spanks him repeatedly with a wooden paddle. He leaves shortly, at which point Dee tosses me a leather bra and matching skirt and says, “Put these on. The cop is going to be here soon, and you’re working today.” I swallow audibly.
“It’s OK to be nervous,” she says, slipping into a pair of spandex booty shorts. “I freaked out before my first session too. But believe me, you’ll be surprised how quickly all of this becomes no big deal. When I started out I was a house domme at a dungeon uptown. That’s how most girls start out—as house dommes. First thing I had to do was go through a desensitization period. You know how long it lasted? Three days! Now you’ve had three days, so you better put on that fucking bra.”
It’s not surprising that Dee is so successful—she has a visceral sexual power. She has this weird ability to be completely dominant while remaining 100 percent feminine. And I guess, unfortunately, those two things don’t go hand in hand very often. At this moment I feel totally under her spell. I’d do anything she asked me to.
“So we’re going to do what’s called a beat-down,” she says excitedly. “Do you throw a good punch?”
“Well, it’s not hard. Just make a fist and swing. No hits to the face, though—focus on the stomach and ass. We can’t leave marks, he’s got a wife.”
“And start drinking water because we’re giving him a golden shower.”
“Oh, uh…” I stutter. “I don’t know… What if I get stage fright? Like, what if I can’t go when it’s time to go?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she shrugs. “I’ll pee first, and then listening to my pee will make you pee.” I nod my head OK as she chucks me a bottle of Evian. And as I stand here chugging, knees shaking, I suddenly realize that what I’m scared of isn’t the pissing or the punching or whatever. What I’m really scared of is disappointing her.
By the time the cop shows up I’ve nervously drunk so much water I actually feel like I’m about to wet myself. He’s around 40 with broad shoulders, a red face, and no neck. The guy is literally enormous. As soon as he walks through the door Dee begins ripping his clothes off, tearing at and punching him at the same time. At first I just stand lifeless, but then Dee shoots me a look like, Uh, duh, help, so I start punching too. We tear off his pants and I hold his arms behind his back while Dee cuts off his underwear with a pair of scissors. He’s loving it. Between blows he makes really overdramatic cries like, “Oh God, someone please help!” and “These women are abusing me!” The whole scene makes me feel like I’m an actress in a really bad porno. It’s pretty cool.
After about 15 minutes of continuous beating, Dee orders the slave into the bathroom. Surprisingly, I feel more relieved than nervous. We all squeeze into the shower—the slave on his back, Dee straddling his face, and me hovering over his stomach. I pull my underwear over to one side and start peeing instantly, at which point Dee looks up at me, eyes glowing, which I know means she’s impressed. She really is so pretty—sort of like Audrey from Twin Peaks, only sluttier. I have the sudden urge to kiss her, but then realize there’s still pee coming out of me, which might make an impromptu make-out seem slightly weird/unprofessional. Stay focused, I think. Soon Dee starts peeing too, and as the slave gargles our piss we give each other a secret high five. I feel oddly proud.
The rest of the session is a blur. My adrenaline is spiking so hard I don’t realize what I’m doing until after I’ve already done it. The slave spends a large portion of the hour barking and panting like a dog, wagging his invisible tail. When he’s a good boy we feed him dog treats. When he’s bad we make him suck our strap-ons. For the finale he cums into a dog bowl, then licks it clean (obviously).
As the cop gets dressed he makes some jokey comment about how he’ll have to hide his torn clothing from his wife. He talks about how she would never in a million years imagine he would do something like this, how at the moment she thinks he’s “shoveling snow.” Dee just smiles and nods and lets him talk. And as he vents to her, blabbing away in this weird, cathartic explosion, it suddenly occurs to me just how truly important Dee is to all these people. She’s not just some hot chick who they pay to boss them around; she’s their escape. She sees them at their most vulnerable, she knows things about them their wives and coworkers and friends will never know, could never know. Andt hey totally need her. It’s like she’s God or something, if God were a babe in latex.
“So did you enjoy it?” she asks when we’re alone once again.
“Yeah,” I smile. “I wasn’t necessarily turned on. I just felt, I don’t know, high I guess.”
“I know what you mean,” she says, putting on her real-life clothes—jeans, t-shirt. “I don’t really find it sexually arousing either. It’s more of a mental stimulation—an arousal of the ego. To be honest, I just really like emasculating men.” She grabs a breast in each hand and squeezes. “It’s better than a fucking orgasm. It’s female supremacy at its finest.”
“Yeah…” I say, staring down at the dog treats in my hand, “I already want to do it all over again. But I guess something inside me still feels a little bit, I don’t know, scared I guess. But in a good way.”
“Thing is, I’ve always been hypersexual. My whole life I’ve been dominant in relationships—the alpha female. So being a dominatrix just came very easily to me. And yeah, I was a little scared at first, but then I thought, fuck it, I do sketchier shit for free! Basically I just think everybody should do what they’re good at, and this is what I’m good at. And you too,” she says, resting her hand on my knee. “You’re a natural.” And for a second I feel like I love her.
This article was written for the current issue of Vice mag