Classic Variations: My Career As A Professional Dominatrice

By Lady Patricia

We had made plans for the evening, but she phoned to plead for a lunch date as well. She was a favorite of mine, so I agreed to meet her downtown. It was a little after noon. Every single office had disgorged its employees. We seemed to be swimming upstream against a torrent of men in drab-colored business suits. They were traveling as fast as they could, clutching briefcases or manila folders—oblivious, harried, rude. Against this background of dark wool and grey double-knit polyester, the occasional secretary or female executive looked impossibly exotic and fragile.

It was a struggle to walk four blocks to the nearest soup-and-salad bar. I found a vacant table and collapsed. My friend hovered over me, discreetly anxious about my state of mind, until I sent her away to fetch me a salad. She departed, reassured by my imperious tone of voice, and I relaxed, comforted by her a prompt compliance. When she returned with our lunch, I fed her her first bite of food, reminded her to sit with her knees apart, then told her to be quiet until I spoke to her.

I surveyed the crowd. Here and there, a nondescript male was eating slowly, staring at my leather jacket, wondering . . . I acknowledged each of them with cold stares. One or two had the grace to blush and discover something fascinating at the bottom of their soup bowls.

How many of these men covertly watching me had the courage to accept their fantasies? How many of them made a phone call once a week or once a year to their mistress, and begged humbly for admission to her dark chambers—and how many were simply well-dressed voyeurs?

I know what those phone calls sound like, because I have been a professional dominatrice. Some are timid, some are hearty and full of forced bravado, some are hostile. There are novices who don't know why they called. The ad turned them on, and they want you to help figure out why. There are fetishists with very specific requirements—Victorian corsets, seven-inch spike heels, adult-sized playpens and rubber panties. There are slaves who want to perform menial household tasks and worship—perhaps even serve—your pussy. And there are masochists who want to be hurt, who are delighted if you can think up a new way to inflict pain upon their tender and vulnerable flesh.

I could not help comparing the stiffness and tension of these businessmen with the demeanor of a well-trained slave. Once a slave enters the domain of his mistress, tension and fear dissipate. He knows the awkwardness or clumsiness will be punished; therefore, he strives to be more deft and graceful. Many slaves would be embarrassed to admit it, but they are always conscious of the way they look and the way they carry themselves. They strive to attract the attention of the mistress, to please her, to be worthy of her ministrations. It is no longer necessary for them to hang on to control, to struggle or compete. The mistress is in control. If she is strict and demanding, the slave knows his place. Once he knows his place, he feels safe and secure. If she is also fair and just, an obedient and respectful slave can hope for a few words of praise or some more intimate reward.

My companion was getting restless. "Are you mad at me?" she whispered nervously. I glanced at her.

"Were you given permission to speak to me?"

"No, Mistress," she confessed, looking down.

I examined her. "Are you wearing a bra?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"You stupid cunt," I swore softly. "How many times have I told you not to wear underwear when you see me?"

"But I'm at work!" she protested.

"I don't care," I snapped. "Go to the ladies' room and remove your undergarments. I want you back at this table with your nipples erect, so I can see what a little slut you are."

She got up slowly, reluctantly.

"I don't want to do this," she murmured.

"Then don't do it." I replied indifferently.

She hesitated. "Can I pee?" she asked.

Her request was so sweet, so tinged with desperation. We had made this date at 10 a.m. and I had ordered her not to visit the restroom until I gave her permission. "It's out of the question. Do you expect favors from me when you're disobedient? Don't be silly."

She sighed, accepting my wishes with the patience of a good submissive, and went to find the ladies' room.

While I finished my lunch, I fell into a reverie. I spent so many years paralyzed by fear, keeping my S & M fantasies well hidden. What a waste! If I hadn't run across a women's group convened to discuss S & M, I might never have dared explore that part of my sexuality. That group became my chief source of information about S & M and support for getting into it. The two women who started the group were professional mistresses.

As time passed, I met other professionals. My sexual curiosity overcame my prudery, not for the first or last time though, and I asked them all kinds of silly questions, trying to understand their lives and work. My stereotypes were shattered. I had envisioned the oldest profession as a dangerous and demeaning activity, and associated it with pimps and narcotics. These women were independent, articulate and likable. They enjoyed their work because they were good at it and it demanded a high level of creativity. They liked having the freedom to set their own hours, and design and build their own equipment and playrooms. They also liked their clients. They recognized the honesty and courage it takes for the male masochist to acknowledge his forbidden desires and search for a way to gratify them. If they spoke ill of a client, it was because he was rude, immature, or inconsiderate—not because he was a slave. They even liked each other. Rather than constantly competing, they would refer a client to another dominatrice if he wanted a change or she was better equipped to fulfill his particular fantasy.

I don't mean to imply they were perfect. They just didn't seem to be any more neurotic or maladjusted or sexually hung-up than I was. I did notice that being involved in a quasi-legal, stigmatized activity created some stress for them. As a lesbian, I was familiar and sympathetic with the distortions stress of that nature produces in one's life.

At the time, I thought of myself as a bottom, or submissive. The idea of being sexually dominant was utterly alien. Giving up sexual control was one of the most gratifying erotic experiences of my life, especially after so many years of frustration and lonely fantasies.

As time went on, I discovered there were drawbacks to the submissive role. I would sometimes find myself with a top who had less experience and finesse than I did. I would begin to think, "This bondage is sloppy. She doesn't know how to handle a whip. I'm bored," and the scene would fizzle. After receiving a slight injury from an impatient top, I began to worry about my comfort and well-being. If someone did not take the safety precautions I thought they should, I could not go under for them.

I found myself getting turned on to women who were exclusively masochistic. Rather than sublimate my passion, I would agree to be a sadist for an evening. I was very nervous about taking on that much responsibility and always had a severe case of stage fright before we got down to playing. But after the first order had been given and obeyed. I lost most of my inhibitions. I was amazed by the strength of my reactions. I was powerfully aroused by the sight of a submissive writhing in my ropes, unable to free herself, her body ornamented and constrained by my knots. I loved whipping an exposed, dimpled ass, and hearing muffled cries of gratitude and pain.

There was only one problem. What could I do with all this arousal? Time and time again. I got caught up in the reactions and needs of the submissive. She would reach an emotional or sexual peak, and the scene would be over. I would be crackling with erotic energy, and she would want to snooze or cuddle. I repulsed the occasional attempt to touch me sexually or get me off. Why?

The first time I let a conquered slave crawl to me and eat me changed my life. She was a very special woman, a very hot and willing submissive, and we eventually became lovers. (Yes, S & M people do fall in love.) It had been an exhausting scene. I wanted to push her to her limits, and she had been responsive and available to me every step of the way, taken everything I could dish out without flinching or withdrawing. As I held her head and moved against her soft lips and tongue, I realized what had stopped me from enjoying all the privileges of a sadist. As a woman, I did not feel entitled to receive sexual service. I had been conditioned to put other people's needs first, to take care of them. Deep down inside, I didn't believe a woman could, or should, take charge of her sexuality. This revelation was quite a shock to a card-carrying feminist. Then the thrill of being served, the warm and wet and eager mouth that was pleading with my cunt, took me away, and I stopped thinking about the socialization of women.

Eventually, I defined myself as a top. I found I could get more of what I wanted when I was running things. Of course, I still bottom out on occasion. I enjoy it for its own sake, and it refreshes my empathy with the needs of a slave. I like being able to tell my M that I know exactly what I'm asking her to do for me, because I've been through it. All of it.

I got a phone call one morning from a good friend of mine who was also a professional dominatrice. She was shorthanded, and asked me if I knew anyone who might want to work with her. My first reaction was, how about me? I was fed up with my tedious, low-paying job and my ill-tempered boss. I felt ready for an adventure. It would be fun to get out of the leather and Levis I usually wore and slink around in a black gown and high heels. If I could sell all my other skills, why not my sexual talents?

I talked it over with my friend. My biggest concern was gender. I was used to seducing and playing female submissives. Were there any differences, besides the obvious anatomical ones, that might give me trouble? Would I be able to fulfill the fantasies of a male slave?

She thought it was worth a try. I had good communication skills and some sexual experience with men. Her opinion was that S & M transcended gender, and a slave was a slave, whether male or female. Since I didn't want to make a firm commitment, we agreed to view it as an experiment. She saw a wide variety of clients, so I would get to sample different trips and see which one suited my abilities and preferences. She also had a well-equipped playroom. In return for placing my ad and operating the space, I agreed to split my fees, if any, with her.

I spent my first day at work familiarizing myself with her playroom and answering the phone. None of the clients who made appointments showed up. She had been complaining of a cold all day, and I suspect was afraid I might get discouraged and give up, so when her last client rang the bell, she said, "Why don't you take him?" My hands were cold and clammy, my throat was dry, and my knees wobbled.

"Why not?" I said, trying to be casual.

She nodded, trying to be equally cool, and disappeared into another room with her kleenex and a hot toddy.

I waited at the head of the stairs, feeling my back straighten and my face settle into a cool, critical mask. My nervousness receded to the pit of my stomach and seethed. I saw him rounding a bend in the stairs. He was about forty-five, had thick and very white hair, and was a little rotund. He jumped when he saw me.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice cracking.

He was obviously about twice as scared as I was. I let out a sigh of relief. "How dare you ask me who I am?" I hissed. "I am your superior. Get down on your knees!" He knelt on the stairs, trying to conceal a burgeoning hard-on. "Your mistress has turned you over to me," I said. I walked down a few steps and placed my foot on the back of his neck. "She tells me you are a rebellious, incompetent slave. Is that true?"

"Oh, I hope not, Mistress," he said fervently, stealing a glance up my dress.

"We'll see," I said grimly, and bent to fasten a dog collar around his neck. My hands were shaking from all the adrenalin in my system. He gave my hand a quick little kiss, then whispered, "I'm really very submissive, Mistress." I giggled, then straightened up and clapped my hands. "Up the stairs! Crawl, you miserable excuse for a slave! Get your sorry little tail into the dungeon! Now!"

Once in the playroom, I strapped him down to the leather-covered bondage table and blindfolded him so he couldn't see me fumble around looking for things. I asked him a few questions and ascertained that he had no major health problems, liked a moderate degree of pain, and could not be marked. I found a pair of silver embroidery clamps connected by a light chain and took a long piece of leather lacing from a drawer. Back at the table, I removed the blindfold. "You're going to beg me to put these on your tits," I told him. I started to play with his nipples, increasing the sensation until I was biting and chewing on them. When he broke down and started screeching and begging for mercy, I placed the clamps on his nipples. I used the leather lace to tie up his cock and balls, and tied the end of the lace to the chain between the clamps. Any struggles or an increase in arousal would inflict pain on his tits and his cock.

I lit a candle and began to drip hot wax on his chest, belly and thighs. While I tortured him, he had orders to express his thanks and praise his mistress. It was wonderful, watching him squirm and hiss when the wax hit, sweating out a stream of flattery and saying "Thank you, Mistress" again and again. He seemed to respond to verbal humiliation, so I poured on the insults. I told him he was absolutely hopeless, a miserable failure as a slave, and good for nothing. He agreed with everything I said. I finally started dripping the hot wax on his genitals, and asked him if there was anything he was good for.

"Hardly anything, Mistress," he whimpered. "I'm not even worthy to kiss your womanhood."

"You're absolutely right," I said. "I wouldn't let you near my cunt. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you rim me. And if you can't do that right, well . . ." I let him imagine what the consequences might be as I climbed up on the table and sat on his face.

He went to work. After a few seconds, I pulled away. "I think you like this," I said.

"Oh, I do, Mistress, I do."

"Then ask for it. Nicely."

He asked me so nicely, I thought his heart would break. "You freak," I said icily. "Contemptible scum. Begging to eat my ass. You make me sick. But since that's all you're good for, go ahead. Do it."

I would let him work on my clitoris for a few seconds, then tell him he was incompetent, and demote him to rimming. When his energy flagged, I would pull away and order him to beg for the privilege of serving me. I was very close to coming when he asked for permission to touch himself. I untied the lacing around his cock and granted his request. While he desperately fondled his cock, I rocked back and forth on his face, feeling his tongue run from my clit to my ass. I wanted to drown him in my juices. He came before I did, and while his semen dried on his belly, I upbraided him for his selfishness and threatened him with all sorts of dreadful things because he came without permission. Needless to say, none of these horrors materialized before he mollified me by providing me with an excellent orgasm.

Well, that's another myth shattered, I thought. Who says you can't come with a client?

Two other slaves stand out in my memory. One was a six-foot-tall Japanese man, twenty-five years old with beautiful black hair that fell below his shoulders and a dancer's elegant muscles. He didn't like bondage or pain; he just liked having his ass played with. After several warm enemas and several more hits of amyl, I almost succeeded in getting my whole hand in him. The other special client was a plain, wispy little man who made a stunning woman. After carefully dressing her and instructing her on the most ladylike way to sit, walk, and gesture, I found it necessary to punish her for certain incorrigible, lascivious tendencies. She swore it was not her fault, that I seduced her, but she was simply too provocative to resist.

There were also failures—a novice who got so terrified that he ran out before I could unbuckle his collar, a gentleman who arrived in jogging shorts who jogged away because my high heels weren't tall enough, and an uppity flagellant who told me he could not be bruised, then complained because I didn't hit him hard enough.

My reverie was disturbed by the sound of a throat being cleared. My friend had returned from the ladies' room. Her nipples were erect, as I had requested.

"Do you want dessert?" I asked. She nodded. "How much did you weigh this morning?" She told me. I considered. "Get yourself a piece of fresh fruit," I told her, "and bring us both coffee."

She pouted. "Don't sulk," I warned her. "You can eat whatever you like when you're on your own. When you're under my care, I decide. Go on, now."

She went, a little disconcerted. How could I forbid her sweets, as if she were a spoiled child? Why was she—an adult—acquiescing to this absurd charade?

When she returned, I reassured her. "My dear," I said, peeling her banana, "there is nothing wrong with your desire to obey me. Relax, and trust me. I won't abuse you. But don't bore me with protestations. Both of us enjoy this."

I fed her the banana, ignoring the other patrons. When her mouth was full of the sweet, sticky fruit, I asked her if her cunt was wet. She nodded, unable to speak. I drank the last of my coffee. She was watching me closely, wondering what I would do to end the luncheon. I drew a leather glove from my jacket pocket. She flinched, afraid I would slap her with it, as I had so many times before. Instead, I walked around behind her and dropped it in her lap. "When you get back to your office," I whispered, "you may go into the ladies' room and use this glove to masturbate. Then you can pee, wash yourself off, and tuck it back into your panties. I want you to keep it there until you see me tonight."

"Oh," she whimpered. A little pang of pleasure went through my cunt. I left her sitting there, crumpling and smoothing my glove.

On my way home, I forgot about her. I would begin to plan our scene later on, while I was cleaning up my room and reorganizing my equipment. I was considering my decision not to continue working as a professional dominatrice. That decision was not based on a feeling that it was immoral or wrong. On the contrary, I believe people should be able to pay for specialized sexual experiences if that is their pleasure. In a more equitable, less oppressive society, the whole business of erotic exchange could be accomplished in a more graceful, enjoyable and humanistic fashion.

The basic problem was that I want more from my submissives than a professional dominatrice ever gets. Taking on a dominant role puts me in a vulnerable position. I need to know that my submissive loves and respects me, and will try to make sure that my needs are satisfied as well as their own. When the scenes with my clients went well, I had no complaints. I felt beautiful, skilled, victorious, and sexually satisfied. When they went wrong, the client left unsatisfied, and it was difficult or impossible to talk about the problems that had come up or avoid blaming one another.

By loving and caring for a slave, I give them a context that makes it safe for them to submit. I can also prepare them emotionally and physically for the unusually heavy scenes because they trust me, and we are in prolonged contact with one another. I have met very few M's who could take intense pain without that special relationship with their dominant partner. I also like to mark my slaves, and very few clients could leave the playroom with bruises, abrasions or cuts. Another favorite trip of mine is to surprise a slave—call them or send them a telegram containing a simple order that can be carried out quickly and secretly. It reminds them that they are slaves, and tells them I think of them even when they are not in my chains. I could never do that with an anonymous client concerned with protecting his identity.

I take my power as a dominant very seriously. It is not a pretend power or a fantasy control. I can and do make people do things for me they would not dream of doing if I did not request it and lead them through it. A client can pretend he is free until his need for a session becomes overwhelming. I don't like to allow my slaves that illusion.

Nonetheless, I don't regret my experiment. And—who knows—I may return to it some day. I know I emerged from it feeling terrific about myself as a woman. Once you've seen a grown man begging to be spanked, it's hard to take male chauvinists seriously. I often tell sexist men the same thing they used to tell feminists: what they need is a good fuck. It makes me feel super to know I exist as a fantasy character in the minds of a few select male slaves. My memories of them are full of fondness—and respect.