When the elevator door slides open on the top floor of this ordinary office building in the Flatiron District, the reception area looks like the lobby of a small upscale hotel. Lushly decorated in shades of burgundy, hunter green and other inky hues with well-polished dark wood furniture, the room has a sexy, gothic quality. I am at Pandora's Box, one of New York's finest dungeons, to schedule a session with a professional dominatrix.
"Do you know what you have in mind?" asks Lara, one of the managers.
"I was thinking about some bondage, flogging, and maybe play piercing."
"Hmmm..." she responds, "I am not used to women coming in here and knowing exactly what they want. Usually if women come here at all, it is with their husbands-reluctantly."
She gives me a big leather portfolio which has photographs of all the house Mistresses. I look through the pages of women in full dominatrix-ware, stylized settings, dramatic poses. I was expecting that there would be more to go on: some sort of bio of each of them, a list of their specialties, a brief missive, something to give me a feel for their individual personas. But, for the most part, I only have photos. I am reminded that this profession is geared toward men as I search to no avail for the fierce butch top. There is lots of lipstick and over-coiffed hair and cleavage-I mean some of the Mistresses look downright girly, which isn't my thing.
Amidst all the femmey drag, I seek out the ones who look tough. Lara tells me that one of my choices, Isabelle, is also a manager and will be working tomorrow.
"She may be able to take a break to do a session, but you'll have to call tomorrow."
There is a flurry of activity in anticipation of a big client who's due to arrive, so I hang around for a while, hoping that some of the women will come in and I can check them out in the flesh. When Mistress Sydney walks in, I know right away she's the one. When Lara introduces us, she immediately tops me as she tells me to do something. She also seems genuinely eager to do a scene with a woman. It's true that probably all the women would do a scene with another woman, but, as you can imagine, some would be more into it than others.
Lara gives me a copy of the extensive information form which all clients fill out, the house keeps on file, and the Mistress reviews before each session. There are the rudimentary questions about medical problems, experience level, and pain tolerance. One section asks me to rate my interest (from 0-5) in various activities and the intensity level (light-medium-heavy) I'd like to experience: spanking, flogging, caning, bondage (rope), bondage (other), slapping, humiliation, public humiliation, sensory deprivation, blindfolds, hoods, gags, mummification, straight jackets, wrestling, foot worship, kicking, nipple torture, golden showers, enemas, hot wax, rubber toys, forced feminization, cock and ball torture, play piercing. The next section is a list of role-playing options to check: student/teacher, mommy/child, abductor/abductee, nurse/patient, trainer/dog, mistress/slave (and some others I can't remember because I wasn't really into that part). The final section is what you'd like your mistress to wear: leather, latex, PVC, corsets, high heels, boots, no shoes, gloves, medical, uniform (specify). When I am finished with my form, it's all there on paper-all my desires tabulated and rated. No one has to do any guesswork, not even me. I return it to Lara, who gives me an appointment for the next day.
When I arrive for my session, Isabelle greets me at the door. I recognize her from the portfolio, although she is much more beautifully striking than her photos. Tall and slender with chin-length golden hair, she looks refined, assured, experienced, and a little severe. Dressed in a black suit, her jacket is classic, tailored, but the skirt is more daring-short, slightly shimmery-and her long legs end in super high patent leather heels. She would make a perfectly demanding teacher or a strict equestrian trainer with a serious riding crop. My fantasies are already in full swing.
As I tour the different rooms, I am struck at how elaborately and thoughtfully each one is decorated and equipped. The "Role-Play Room" has lots of different enclaves: the colorful, majestic carousel horse (for mommy/kid scenes) and a vanity and mirror, with drawers of cosmetics and wigs (good for cross-dressing and "forced feminization"). The classroom has a blackboard and little desks with attached chairs, and around the corner is a black vinyl bondage table leaning against a wall full of whips, floggers, canes, and leather restraints. The "Versailles Room" is actually two rooms decorated in the style of 18th century French aristocracy-lots of plush couches and chairs, an ornate chandelier, a throne-like chair on a raised platform fit for a queen. It reminds me of an upper class ladies boudoir. The next room is "The Dungeon," which is pretty self-explanatory-wooden stockades, a bondage table, a wrought-iron cage, an eerie looking coffin, and some sort of saw horse apparatus. The temperature feels noticeably cooler in The Dungeon than in the other rooms.
Mistress Sydney's long, curly hair is pulled back loosely, and she is dressed in an outfit similar to when I saw her last night-black silky, clingy pants, high heels, and a black lace bustier. She has off-white chiffon skin and dark, perfectly lined lips.
"Hi, how are you?" she says, pleased to see me, smiling genuinely, holding my questionnaire in her hand.
"I'm nervous," I admit.
She reviews my questionnaire with me, asking me a question every now and then, commenting, nodding, taking mental notes.
"So, you'd like a little public humiliation, right?"
"Um, yeah..." I giggle. When someone whispers in your ear, "I bet you'd like to have my friends watch me spank you and see what a hungry slut you are," that can be hot. But in this context, it felt too matter-of-fact, de-eroticized, businesslike.
"Now, what about humiliation in private?"
"Well, I like to be told what to do, given orders, disciplined. I suppose it's more discipline that humiliation. Sometimes I can be a wise-ass and need to be put in my place."
"Very good." Pause. "What kind of sensory deprivation do you prefer?"
"Blindfolds, mostly, I guess. Maybe a gag, but not a hood or ear plugs."
She nods, then reads aloud to herself. "Play piercing, good, 5 for slapping, good, hot wax, you're not really into."
She reminds me that penetration and sexual acts of any kind are illegal and not part of the services provided. She tells me that my safeword is "mercy," but I must use it properly, as in "Mercy, Mistress, Please."
"Would you like to have an enema to start?" she asks. Now, she doesn't know I wrote a book on anal sex, so this question immediately makes me think she's got me pegged. I agree.
She leads me to the "Medical Room," where our scene will take place, which is mirrored on all four walls and the ceiling. A white vinyl table sits in the middle of the room with white leather restraining straps, white leather wrist and ankle restraints, and metal stirrups at one end. Glass shelves with glass jars of medical paraphernalia line one wall. In the corner sits a tank of oxygen and a IV stand. A white leather hood hangs on a hook to the left of the sink. There are white cabinets everywhere. She tells me to get fully undressed, and she leaves the room.
So there I am totally naked, surrounded by my reflection, already feeling at a disadvantage. When Sydney returns with a handful of floggers and a paper bag stuffed full, she tells me to get on my hands and knees on the table. She fills a clear IV bag with water and I feel tubing slide inside my ass. She's careful, gentle, and the water pressure is very low. But I quickly feel myself filling up, and I say something to that effect.
"You can take it," she says, reassuring but firm, "Hold it like a good girl."
And I do until I feel like I am going to burst and say, "Mistress, I feel like I have to go." She instructs me to walk naked through the lobby and to the bathroom. When I return to the room, she tells me to bend over the table with my ass in the air.
"I'm going to invite my friend, another Mistress in here to spank you."
I can't see who comes in with her, don't want to turn all the way around to try because that would be disrespectful. I imagine that it's Isabelle. The second Mistress runs her hands up and down my back and legs. She slaps my ass and her touch is firm, deliberate. They talk about me as the spanking continues, and Mistress Sydney tells me that I am being punished for not taking the whole enema bag. She also tells me that I better take the spanking and not make her look bad in front of another Mistress. The spanking gets progressively harder, and they talk about how when the second Mistress starts to hit me with more force, I let out a squeak.
"I like that sound she makes," cackles the second Mistress, "I want to hear it again. This little bottom of yours is adorable and so sweet, Sydney."
My ass becomes so raw and the smacks feel so intense that I am convinced that she must have switched to a leather paddle at some point. She can't possibly hit me this hard with her bare hand. Mistress Sydney then ties my hands with rope and some very skilled knot work. When she is finished with the knots, she says, "Ask nicely for more, I know you want to."
I think I am nearing my limit, so I say, "Please, can I have a *little* more Mistress?" They both giggle and tell each other how cute and well-behaved I am (as if I'm not even there). Then Mistress Sydney unties my wrists and tells me to turn over and lay on my back, and I am staring at my naked body in the mirror on the ceiling. I also see then that it is not Mistress Isabelle who's been making my ass cheeks burn, but a Mistress I saw last night; she was in a white latex mini-dress and nurse's cap carrying a black medical bag. I also recognize her from the big leather book: it is Mistress Maxim, whose nickname is Mad Max. She has a mane of red hair the colors of Cajun seasoning, dark lips, and a sinister look in her eye.
"Have you ever played with clothespins?" Mistress Sydney asks.
"No," I answer honestly.
"But you can take them, can't you?" It's sort of a rhetorical question.
Mistress Sydney tells me to spread my legs, then they both go to work on me. I feel fingers squeezing sections of my pussy lips, then the pressure of a clothespin clipping the flesh. As more clips are added, the sensations build until I am overwhelmed with stimulation. I can't tell exactly what's going on, what they are doing to me. Four hands travel over my labia, my opening, my bush, my asshole. When they brush against a clothespin, I feel a surge in my pussy. They seem to be nudging the clips one at a time, then a few at a time, until I am reeling from the feelings. I feel a clothespin press on my clit, then another. I feel the wooden clips pinching little pockets of flesh surrounding my asshole. The clips are adding so much pressure to my clit, I feel like I am going to explode. I imagine that they are sliding clips inside me, in my pussy and in my ass, and once they are inside, they press the ends together and I feel two wooden pegs open, filling me up and stretching me at the same time.
"Mistress Sydney," I say, "May I come please?"
"Yes, you may," both Mistresses answer in unison.
When my breathing slows down, Mistress Max starts to take off the wooden clamps; as each one comes off, I feel a seething pain in my pussy. They comfort me, tell me I'm a good girl, tell me they know it hurts, that it hurts the worst when they come off. When the last one is off, Mistress Max cups my mound in her hand. I feel like I need an icepack or a cold compress or something, but when she takes her hand away, it feels a lot better. Mistress Max leaves the room, and Mistress Sydney stands above me, strokes my head, talks in soothing tones.
When I come down from the high, she is still there.
"We didn't get to do everything on your list, but I hope you enjoyed your experience."
I sit up, still naked and dazed, and blurt out a million questions. How did you get into this? How long have you been doing it? How long have you worked here and where else have you worked? What do you like and dislike about it? What's the difference between topping a man versus a woman?
"Send all the lesbians you know to me," she says, and she is sincere. I *do* think that a session at Pandora's would make a great gift for a friend. I tell her that if I get a good royalty check soon, I will definitely be back to see her. And this time, I can leave my notepad at home and concentrate on her sumptuous breasts spilling out of the bustier and her voice, stern but warm.
But the more I think about the session, the more I realize that it was exciting and fun and interesting, but it lacked something. It was ultimately superficial, the antithesis of intimacy, though I know it is hard to create intimacy on the spot and with a time limit. Taking someone to bed for the first time can be risky-you have to figure out what makes them purr and vice versa-but that kind of dangerous vulnerability can be really hot. Since everything was articulated on paper beforehand, my Mistress had knowledge about my desires, but she didn't have any context for them. She knew I "needed" discipline because I told her I did, which is nothing like the moment when a top puts me in my place in a scene because she has watched me in the world and just knows what I need. A girl with instinct and courage (but no questionnaire) can push my buttons, hit a nerve, and drive me wild. And for that woman, I will gladly submit. Mercy, Mistress, Please.
