Snake in the Sink

I had a really weird dream Thursday night, when I was in my hotel room in San Francisco….

I dreamed that I was hurrying to get ready for a morning session.  I was dressed and almost prepared, but I walked into the bathroom…

…and found my snake there, curled up in the sink, which was full of water!

(Note: I don’t actually have a pet snake.  I call him “my” snake because I have dreamed about this creature a few times now, and he’s always the same.  He is a nice friendly green snake.  I like snakes, I think they are awesome!)

Anyway, he was in the sink, with his head sticking out of the water.  He did not seem to be distressed…but a snake like that does not belong in the water…?  Was he drowning…?  Was he just taking a bath…?

Next to him, on the bathroom counter, was my pet parrot Abe!

Abe and the snake were looking at each other, and I felt like they had been talking, and I’d interrupted their conversation….

Upon seeing the snake, I panicked a little bit.  I mean, I couldn’t have a snake in the sink when my client arrived!  He’d freak out my client!

“Snake!  What are you doing here?! You can’t be here, snake!” I protested.

I picked up the snake and was running around deciding what to do with him!  I looked underneath the bed, and thought about hiding him there, but then I thought that if he crawled out from under the bed in the middle of the session, it would look really bad.

I thought about hiding the snake in the safe with my money, but I couldn’t do that because he might die without air ventilation.

Eventually, I dumped him in a drawer in the closet, and closed the closet doors.

Then I heard the knock upon the door.  My client.

What do you think this dream means….?

Sorority Paddle

Behold the sweet manna the prodomme goddesses in heaven have chosen to rain down upon me!

I was at the used furniture store the other day, shopping for a bedside lamp and a gift for my mother’s birthday, when, what did I see hanging on the wall but this!

An authentic sorority paddle from 1956, engraved with the logos and official seals of my undergraduate university!

I couldn’t believe it!  It’s perfect!  It’s everything I ever wanted in a wooden torture instrument!  And it only cost me $20!

“It’s been hanging on the wall forever,” said the salesman, who seemed honestly confused by my delight and rapturous enthusiasm. “It came from an estate sale.  We found it in a box of random junk.”

“It’s not junk!” I hissed, as if someone had just insulted a prized family heirloom.

He pulled back, startled.  “Well, I’m glad you like it, Miss.”

I handed it to him, but before I released it into his hand, I said, “I’m going to keep shopping, but I want this paddle!  Under no circumstances are you to sell it to anyone else!  I’ll be done in 20 minutes.  Hide it in a drawer, so nobody else can see it!”

He looked increasingly alarmed and promised me that he would keep it safe for me until I was done shopping.

I was so happy that I came straight home and took a zillion photos of the thing.  Here are a few.  Sorry, I can only show you one side of the paddle…the side with the sorority crests and the writing, “CHRISTMAS FORMAL ’56.”  I can’t show the college seals for security reasons.

It’s so special that I almost don’t want to beat a boy with it.



christmas formal 56 1





Folsom Street Fair! (vote for my costume!)

Hi, Readers…!

Ultimately, I decided to go as a French Maid.  All of the options had their unique charms (and I will definitely be Jeannie in a future Halloween party!), but I felt this one was truest to my submissive identity.

After all, I have performed labor for the men I have served in my life.  Such a great variety of tasks.   At times, I labored like a serf…which I was.

I have secured a 4-star hotel room and I’m going shopping at the Fair!

That is all.




Something new is happening this year: I’m going to be in San Francisco for the Folsom Street Fair!

(Yeah, I know it has a majority-gay contingent, but tons of straight people attend, and I’m going to be one of them!)

I’ve always wanted to go to the Folsom Street Fair!

Now, I was wondering to myself: what should I wear…?  Usually, when I go to play parties or leather events, I go as a domme, or at least a not-obviously-aligned leathered-out (femme) woman, because single submissive women are creep magnets and I want to be with my friends or watch the demos and not fend off the Domly Dom Chester Molesters all night, you know…?

Buuut….this is the Folsom Street Fair, a huge public gathering, and most of the dudes who will be there will be GAY (meaning: safe)!  So I thought to myself that I could be totally authentic and attend as a slavegirl!


What are the FemSub archtypes…?  The nurse is an authority figure and I don’t like medical play anyway.  Catholic schoolgirl is perennially popular, but I’ve done so much of it at work that the fun is gone.  The nun is an authority figure and also….gross and too personal for me (Catholic school grad here).  Airline stewardess….?  Snooze!

I’ve narrowed it down to three contenders:


What’s not to like?  Put a ring on her and call her “wife!”  That’s what wives are: sex maids!  But this is a kinky, sexy, submissive sex maid!  I’d get a frilly petticoat to go under the skirt, and add a little apron and a pair of feminine white cotton gloves…and backseam stockings, of course!

french maid

Next: Little Red Riding Hood! (incidentally, that was Mr. Wolf’s nickname for me….because of my strawberry-blonde hair, and because I was wearing a scarlet pea-coat when we met).

Jung (Carl Jung, not Therapist Jung, lol) said that women are witches and men are wolves.  I think he was a crackpot, but he did have moments of insight, and this was one of them.

red riding hood


NEXT: Leia’s slavegirl outfit from Star Wars.  I could be a geek magnet, instead of a creep magnet!

lea slavegirl costume

So, what do you think…?  I’m really leaning towards French Maid (with delicate shackles on), but each outfit has its charms, lol.

Oh!  There is one more!  Genie, from I Dream of Genie…but that’s kinda racist/Orientalist and Edward Said would not approve and this IS San Francisco, they’d burn me at the fuckin stake….



I encourage all readers to weigh in, and help me pick an outfit, or suggest a new one!  You may do so anonymously, if you prefer!



What Happened with Jeff: Part II

I never talked to the Surgeon about Jeff, but he knew something was going on because I was gradually withdrawing from him emotionally and I was out of touch for hours or days at a time.  He knew.

He put his foot down.

“Whatever you have going on, you need to end it.  Now,” he said.  We were in a hotel suite in Midtown and he was sitting on the sofa next to me, dressed in his suit.  He voice and tone and face were serious.  Serious as a heart attack.   He could be so intimidating.

For a few minutes I tried to deny it and feign ignorance, but it was no use.  He knew me too well, and even if he didn’t, when he turned the full force of his scrutiny upon me (or anyone)…he could tell.  The Surgeon had a surgeon’s eye.  He sees everything, when he bothers to look.

I started to cry.  And, readers, you know I never cry.

“It’s not fair!  It’s not fair to me!  You don’t want me to have anyone in my life but you!”

He paused, considering.  Then: “You’re right, Margo.  It’s not fair to you, and you put up with a lot.  But that’s the way it is.  I happened to your life, and that’s just the way it is.”

“Why don’t you want me to be happy?  Surgeon, this can’t go on!”  I was sobbing and so humiliated, to be crying in front of him.

If this man really loved me, this man who was old enough to be my father, who could never offer me a family or a normal future, he would say something along the lines of: This relationship has been very dear to me and I will cherish it forever, and I will always be your friend and be there for you, and I will miss you, but if you think you can find happiness with this man, you need to move on.

He said nothing of the sort, of course.  What he said was: “I need you and we need each other.  You are not going anywhere.  The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for you.  I’m sorry that you’re crying, darling, but that’s life, and you brought this on yourself when you decided to get involved (with another relationship).”

Sobbing sobbing sobbing, just sobbing on the couch.  He passed me a kleenex.

“Look, Margo, you are never going to better-deal me.  Nobody else will give you what you need, or understand what you need like me.

Nobody else will ever love you like I do.”

At that, I felt a flash of rage cutting through the grief.

“I sure as hell hope not!” I screamed at him.

His face got tense and I wondered if he was going to punish me for that.  By this point in our relationship, insubordination was a capital offense as far as he was concerned.

He said, in a low soft voice, “I know you’re in pain right now, so I’ll let you get away with that one.”

“It’s not fair!” I whispered, hitching in breath.

“I know.  But that’s the way it is.  Whatever you have going on, you end it now, or else I’ll end it for you.”

I understood this to be the truth.  He would find Jeff, and confront him somehow, call him at home or even at his work.  He would confront him, and God knows what he’d say…tell him about my history of sex work, working in the dungeon?  Tell him where all those bruises really came from?  Tell him the truth about the bracelet? Tell him that I was a masochist who craved, and accepted, awful violence?

I knew that the Surgeon would do it.  He was absolutely unafraid of confrontation and he was not afraid to violate boundaries.

I went home and wrote Jeff an email.  I don’t remember what I wrote word-for-word, but it was something like: I am so sorry, I think you are a wonderful man, but I have an ex-boyfriend who has been contacting me again and my feelings for him and that relationship are still unresolved.  I am unable to give you the complete attention and devotion that you so richly deserve.  From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry for the pain this may cause you, and I am sorry that I wasted your time.  Jeff, I am grateful for how you treated me and our time together.

Yeah, it was not the real/whole truth.  But how could I tell him the whole truth…?

He wrote back: Margo, my affection for you is well known, and I do not want to lose you.  I want you in my life.  But you need to be straight with me.  

I did not respond.  That was our final communication.

The Surgeon took me to Boston the next day and kept me there for a little while so that he could keep an eye on me and refresh my programming.

That’s all.  I’m ashamed that when the Surgeon put pressure on me I folded like a cheap card table.  I was a coward.  I guess all I can say, in my defense, is that it is very difficult to defy or resist the man….and I would not be the only person in his orbit to say so.  In my entire life, I have never met anyone with such a will to power.

Eventually, I started to date other men again, from time to time.  The relationships were all strictly recreational–get dinner, hang out, maybe have sex.  Friendly but superficial.  I didn’t let any of them get close to me (and, if I may add, I never misled any of them.  I was very careful about that, because, after Jeff, I felt very guilty)….

….until the Mathematician, when I decided to make a break for it.  We all know how that turned out.   I lost that “relationship,” but at least I got my freedom.

And now, to wrap this up, I’ll tell you the dream I had about Jeff:

I dreamed that I was at this restaurant we liked to go to, close to Tompkins Square Park, in my neighborhood.  It was crowded in there, as it often was, and I was standing in the bar area.

I was looking around, and I saw Jeff seated at one of the tables in the dining area, across from a brunette woman who I immediately assumed was his new girlfriend.

I wanted to approach him and tell him how sorry I was, and that I hoped he was doing well, and was happy, but I felt self-conscious.  So, instead, I waited until they were done with their meal, and then they parted ways and I followed him to the train station (just as I’d followed him OUT of the train station the first time I met him).

(Interesting note: in my dream, the car looked like an NJ Transit train car, and not like a PATH train car.)

He took a seat and started to read from his magazine.  I approached him and told him that I was sorry.

He ignored me, like he couldn’t hear me.  As if I was a ghost.

Maybe I was.


What Happened with Jeff (part I)

Note:  I know I don’t come off very well in this story.  I had no right to get so close to Jeff when the Surgeon was in my life.   I feel awful about it and always have, though I know that does not absolve me of responsibility or ameliorate the confusion I caused this decent man, who treated me with nothing but respect and kindness.

*                             *                            *

Last night I had a dream about Jeff.

It was a complete surprise.  I haven’t had a dream about Jeff in a long, long time.  Several years.

I feel it’s time to talk about Jeff, and what happened to that relationship.  I wrote a little about him when I started this blog, but I never wrote about what happened…its conclusion.

I picked up Jeff on the PATH train.  The car was mostly empty, and I noticed him sitting there reading The New Yorker.  I liked the way that he looked.  I can’t tell you why, exactly…he wasn’t ugly by any means, but he was not a very conventionally handsome man.  He was my height, lean and wirey, my favorite body type (the Surgeon’s body type).  His face was angular and he had a slightly crooked nose and big eyes and glasses.  His clothes weren’t flashy, but he was very neat and put-together and fastidious-looking.  His hands were big for a man of his size, with long, spindly fingers, and downed with brown hair.

I thought he was cute.  I was attracted to him.  I hoped that he would look up, so that I could catch his eye, but he was absorbed in his reading.

Well, he stood up to leave at the 9th Street PATH station, and I decided “Fuck it!  Approach him!” and I followed him out of the car and up the hall and onto the street.

I plucked at his sleeve and said something along the lines of: Excuse me, my name is Margo, I don’t mean to bother you but I was watching you on the train and I like your magazine and I thought you were really cute and if you’re not busy or married I was wondering if you’d like to get some coffee or lunch.

We exchanged numbers and went out for lunch the next day.

And we hit it off, right away.  I liked the way he spoke, his mannerisms, his understated-yet-confident bearing.  He was courteous.  This is what I wrote about him on my blog, shortly after we’d met:

We shared a meal together and I liked him right away.  I talked quite a bit, which is unusual for me on the first date—I usually encourage the other person to do most of the talking, so that I can learn about them.  Jeff was very easy to talk to.  I felt comfortable with him. Warmth came naturally.  He was polite, unaffected, knowledgeable.  He made sense to me.  I felt like I understood his disposition, his temperament.  I enjoyed watching him—his gestures, the way he ate his food, the way he carried himself.  And I liked the way he treated me.  Present and engaging, without radiating expectation.  After we left the restaurant, I told him that I found him attractive and I would like to see him again (again, that look of pleased surprise!).  I was confident that he would like to meet me again; I knew intuitively that I had charmed him. 

And so began our relationship, which lasted about four or five months.

He had an ex-wife with whom he shared custody of their five-year-old daughter.  He had an apartment in a nice part of Jersey City and a modest-but-comfortable middle-class job.  He commuted into Manhattan every morning for work.  He had a college degree, and he wasn’t a super-cerebral nerd like me, but he read, and was plenty intelligent, and when I was discussing something obscure he could totally keep up with me.

There were so many things I appreciated about him!  He never said anything derogatory about his ex-wife.  He didn’t try to have sex with me right away–he had healthy, mature boundaries.  He didn’t introduce me to his kid (and, for that matter, he always prioritized his time with his daughter above spending time with me, which is EXACTLY AS IT SHOULD BE, and which I really respected.  It meant that his priorities were right, and his daughter was more important than his fun date/sex with a new woman, and that he was vetting me before he let me around her.  It meant that he placed his responsibilities to loved ones above his personal desires, which is wonderful and a very good sign!).

The sex was vanilla, but good.  I really liked his body, and we had chemistry.  He wasn’t a sadomasochist.  His sexuality was robust but…I dunno….”normal”?

He was very cautious with me as the relationship progressed.  Cautious, but not paranoid or neurotic.  Letting me into his life, step by step, slowly sharing more intimate things about his family, his childhood, his successes and frustrations at work, his dreams for the future.  His feelings.  He was methodical.  Boundaries, like I said.  Even though he really, really liked me, he didn’t ask for instant intimacy.

He was kind and funny, but there was a (very slight) edge to him that turned me on: I understood, intuitively, that I could not walk all over this man.  He did not let anyone take advantage of him.  He was modest, but confident and secure.

At the time, I wasn’t working in a dungeon, though I’d worked in one for 6 months previous.  I was in my PhD program and tutoring.  I did not tell Jeff about my history of sex work, but that was the only secret that I had…

….except for the Surgeon.

I was seeing the Surgeon the entire time.  I was never monogamous with the Surgeon, and he tolerated me seeing other men as long as I didn’t get too close to them, and my relationships with them did not impede, in any way, upon his relationship and intentions with me.

I told myself that I wasn’t being dishonest with Jeff because we were still getting-to-know-you dating, and we’d never asked each other if we were seeing other people, and we never discussed monogamy or had the DTR (the “Defining the Relationship” discussion, where you agree to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and make it formal).  We weren’t at that stage of the relationship yet.

But, of course…things started to come up.  I’d be at Jeff’s, and the Surgeon would text me and, when I didn’t respond, he’d blow up my phone, and I’d have to turn it off.

I was wearing a gold bracelet (a slave bracelet, I guess) that I could not take off, because it was soldered closed.  The Surgeon did that.

I’d go away for the weekend a few times and essentially be out of touch while I was gone, some texts, but not available to talk.

Jeff was not an idiot.  I felt that he was making mental notes about these things.  He was not suspicious of me, he never confronted me about any of it, but I knew he was storing all this away.

(Sometimes I would also show up with bruises on my ass or my back, from the Surgeon’s beatings, and I’d have to make up excuses about where they came from.  Those are the only lies I think Jeff accepted completely, in his heart…because who thinks the girl they are dating is a masochist willfully getting strapped?)

After four or five months, I was spending a lot of time with Jeff: weekends at his place in Jersey City when he didn’t have his daughter there, and at least one or two nights per week at my East Village apartment.   We emailed.  We Skyped.  He met my mother when she flew to the City for my birthday.

The relationship was ready to…evolve.   It was reaching the tipping point.  Where you start to say, “I love you,” and commit, at least somewhat, to the other person and the relationship.

And that’s when the Surgeon landed on it.  With both feet.

(will continue after my alcohol rehab support group meeting)

Tales from The Biz: Evading a Rapist “Client”



*                                  *                               *

I was almost raped at work last week.

I debated with myself about whether to write about this story for two reasons: 1) would reliving it in detail in my mind be worth it? and 2) I hate to provide fodder to sex work abolitionists who use any bad experience to “prove” that all sex work is exploitative and awful and that men who hire sex workers are disgusting and deranged.

But…this is a blog about my life, including my experiences at work…the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I’ve never censored my experiences in the Biz and I’m not going to start now.

This man books an appointment with me via email.  He didn’t have any references from sex workers (ha! wonder why?!), but he did give me verifiable employment information, so I confirmed the appointment.

I asked him if he’d seen prodommes before and he was a little vague…yeah, a long time ago, in Miami…he said he had recently ended a relationship and wanted to try it again.

He said that he “liked feet” and wanted a “sexy experience.”

Well, okay.  I was already slightly annoyed because this description didn’t give me much to run with, but I thought, okay, it’s a body worship session.  In my next email, I outlined exactly what I allow and don’t allow.  I was very clear.  He said okay.

Soooo…it was 9 PM, my last session of the day (session #5, but they’d been staggered with hours-long breaks throughout the day, so I wasn’t too tired).  He came into my room, and the first thing I noticed about him was that he was big.  A big beefy man, 6’4″ at least, probably taller than that.

(Bet you anything this fucker played football or baseball in college.)

Middle-aged white guy with a red face, baseball cap, and reddish-brown goatee.

I was trying to start off with the getting-to-know-you small talk chit-chat that almost all new clients (AND ME!) like to have.  After they’ve been established, I can start dominating them the minute they walk in the room, but when they meet me for the first time, most clients like to introduce themselves and talk for a few minutes in order to relax with me and discuss their session ideas, and to make sure they are attracted to me and ready to go forward with the session.  I offer them a refreshment, see if they want to shower or use the toilet…we get comfortable with one another.

Well, this guy immediately sat down on my computer chair (I hate that) and started to undress.  It was a little alarming, and it made me wonder, momentarily, if he was a cop.  But then I thought to myself that a cop wouldn’t get nude because he’d be wearing a wire, and he’s also want to get me to say that I’d do some sort of sex act.

He just threw his clothes down on the floor.  I offered to hang up his jacket and he ignored me.  Then he barged over to me and started yanking on my dress (I’d told him that I was willing to strip down to my bra and underpants, but no more).   I heard a seam rip!

“Don’t rip my clothes!” I protested, and pushed him away (more like, I stepped back.  I was not going to be pushing this guy anywhere.  He was too big).

I pointed at the floor in front of the plush armchair and told him to kneel down on the clean bath towel I’d laid on the carpet.  I told him to stay on that bath towel unless I gave him permission to move.

He paused for a few seconds, and then (grudgingly, I felt) kneeled on the towel.  I did not like his vibes.  It seemed like he did not like to be told to kneel on the towel, which is not the vibe I would get from an earnestly submissive man.

Usually, I have a bit of an act at the start of a body-worship tease-and-denial session: make them kneel, put a collar on them, maybe handcuff their hands in front of them, flirt with them and ask them sensual questions about their fantasies, etc etc…

Well, this man had already ruined “the mood,” but it was worse than that: I felt, instinctively, that he had zero interest in any of those things and was going to complain or resist me if I started with them.  I thought: Okay, he wants to get down to business, he wants to eat my feet and jerk off and LEAVE, and he’s one of those paradoxical clients who are whorephobic and actually resent the women they hire.

I lifted my dress over my head, folded it, and laid it on the bed.  Usually, if the client isn’t an asshole, I do it in a gradual, teasing way while I talk to him, but, like I said, this man didn’t seem interested, and I wasn’t feeling very sexy.

I sat on the chair in front of him, and I was still TRYING to be sensual and nice.  I put my feet on his chest.

Well, he grabbed my foot and put it into his mouth, and he was rough.  He was biting my foot!

“Hey, hey, big fella!  Watch the teeth!” I said.

Well, he switched, and then started biting my other foot! I reminded him to keep his mouth soft, and he would back off, but then start with the gnawing again.  Then he started to go up my legs, and he was sucking and biting on my thighs!

“Hey!  Just licking and kissing only.  Please don’t suck like that.  I can’t have marks,” I said.

He backed off, and was more gentle, and then started again!

I was just about out of patience.  I pulled my legs away and grabbed him under the chin and pointed his face up to mine.

“Tell me: did you have a lot to drink at dinner tonight?  If you have, I just want to know.  You’re being rough and you’re not listening to me.”

He grunted and shook his head.

I dunno.  He MIGHT have been drunk.  I think that a man like him might have been drinking to get up the courage for what he intended to do to me, and his behavior was erratic.  However, I didn’t smell any alcohol smell on him.

“Okay, fine,” I said (also wondering to myself: why isn’t this man TALKING?).  “Now, you need to be more gentle.  I can’t have bite marks, okay?”

He (grudgingly, I felt) returned to kissing my skin…and then he reached up his hand, to touch my hair.

Now, I have very fine, soft, silky hair.  I don’t like it, because it’s so flat and thin, but I know that men like to touch it because it’s so soft.  If the client is respectful and not a DOUCHEBAG, and I like him, I will often throw my hair over him…the men love it, they find it very erotic.

Well, this fuck did not touch or pet my hair.

He grabbed a handful of it and yanked on it!  Hard!

I was done.  Nothing about this man was submissive, he was being an asshole, all the alarm bells were going off, and I was pissed.

I immediately stood up and walked to the other side of the room, grabbing my dress.

“This session is over!  You need to put your clothes on and get the fuck out of here.  NOW.”

In retrospect, I am proud of how composed I was…I guess because I was angry, and not scared (the fear came later).  My voice was loud, but low and firm.

He stood up, all red-faced, nostrils flaring, and he had a look of hatred on his face.  His hands were opening and closing into fists, opening and closing.

And then, I saw it in his eyes: he was going to try to rape me.  There was no doubt in my mind.  And I understood that he came to the hotel with the intention of raping me.

Well, not “me,” not Miss Margo.  He came with the intention of raping a sex worker, (“a whore,” as I’m sure he thinks of us in his disgusting mind).  That is why he didn’t want to talk to me for even five minutes when he came in the room: talking to me would humanize me, maybe make him see me as a real person, and then he wouldn’t be able to do what he intended to do.  

I thought fast, and suddenly, I had a burst of inspiration!

“Hey, guy!  See my laptop there?”  I pointed at my laptop on the desk.  “My webcam has been on the entire time, it’s recorded everything and saved it in the cloud.  Even if you break it, the video is still there, and I have another camera in the room, too.  If you hurt me now, everyone will know about it!  And the hotel cameras in the lobby filmed you coming in!”

He looked at my laptop, and then back at me.  There was a 3-second beat, where I saw him doing the calculus in his mind.

“Get dressed and get the fuck out before I call the police,” I said.  I was staring him down, direct, unblinking eye contact.  I was doing this in my bra and panties, too.  I am really proud of myself for keeping my composure.  I wasn’t shaking or scared…not yet.

And this raping motherfucker…started to pick his clothes up off the floor and put them on.  In a big hurry.

“I thought you liked it,” he said.  “I thought you liked it, I thought you wanted it.”

“Why the hell would you think I liked it?  The entire time you’ve been here, everything out of my mouth as been negative or telling you to stop!”

“I thought you liked it,” he repeated.  He was getting dressed so fast that coins were falling out of his pants pockets.

“I didn’t like it and you know I didn’t like it!”

I thought you liked it, classic rapist’s excuse.

I pulled on my dress, thought for a few seconds, and then said: “I won’t charge you for the full hour.  You can pay me for a half-hour session.”

You guys, I know I was really pushing it with that one, but I was still PISSED OFF, and I knew…I knew that if I didn’t at least TRY to make him pay, I’d hate myself afterward.  He’d only been in the room for 10 minutes, but I earned something, he’d put his mouth on my body, I tolerated his bullshit, and I was going to remember him for many years to come, I earned something!

“That’s $200,” I said, standing by the door.  “And you are blacklisted!” 

(I know you’re not supposed to tell bad clients when they’re blacklisted, because it gives them the head’s-up to change their telephone numbers and aliases, but I was so angry that I wanted to tell him he was exposed.)

He ran to the door, huffing and puffing, red-faced, fumbling with his wallet.

Then, get this: he took out $200 and threw it down on the carpet at my feet.  I guess he thought it would be degrading for me to have to pick up the money off the floor.  Degrade the whore, yup, fits right in with his rapist mindset.

“Have a nice life!” he bellowed, and ran out the door.  Yeah, scumbag, throw down the money and get the last word in.  Really clever reportee there, really clever insult, wow I am so hurt….NOT.

I watched him run for the elevator.  He was literally running away.

I closed the door and bolted it.

Then I took a long, long shower.  I scrubbed and exfoliated and shaved my legs, every place he had touched me, and shampooed my hair.

When I picked up his money, I didn’t feel degraded at all.  I felt like I won.  Paying me was an admission on his part.

Worst client I’ve had in San Francisco, hands down.  Nobody else even comes close.

…except that he’s not really a client, is he…?  He’s just a rapist asshole who targeted me because he thought I was vulnerable and he could get away with it.

You know, I’ve been molested at this job probably a dozen times over the years.  It’s always something like a quick grope where he knew it wasn’t allowed, or a guy suddenly pressing his penis on me or putting my hand on his genitals, or suddenly kissing me on the mouth or putting his tongue in my ear.  Molestation, you know, a boundaries violation.

But I have never thought that I was about to be raped…(the molesters always backed off when I told them to stop).   Yeah, of course I worry about being raped, especially when I was still doing sub sessions and I was more vulnerable, but I have never thought: This man is going to rape me.

Until now.  This asshole intended to rape me, and I am lucky that he did not punch me in the face on his way out the door for revenge that I’d foiled his plot.

I really dodged a bullet with this one.  Skin of my teeth.

But I got out okay…and I won.

Client Warning: Tale of the Bad Domme

This post is about something that has been bothering me for a long time.  I’ve never discussed it with anyone but other dommes at the Studio, but I want to write about it because I think it’s important for clients to know what’s out there.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, because I have a 19-year-old client I’ve decided to re-book with.  He LOOKS about 17.  I knew he was young, because he described himself as an undergrad in his emails, but I didn’t know how young.  When I opened the door, I couldn’t believe it!

“How old are you, son?” I asked, when he came inside.

(Interesting note: for once, I was not remotely afraid of a new client, even though, statistically, this guy was almost the top demographic for male violent behavior.  I felt like I wanted to take him out for ice cream.)

“My birthday was last week.  This is my birthday gift to myself.  19!”

I asked for ID.

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”  He was so nervous that he was trembling all over.  He had a buzzcut, light brown hair, and big eyes with thick long camel’s eyelashes (why do men always get the best hair and eyelashes?  Why?)

“It doesn’t matter, because what you’re asking for isn’t illegal,” I said, which is technically true but also bullshit because the police have an “arrest-em-all-and-let-the-judge-sort-em-out” mentality.  Then I opened the suitcase by the bed to display my gear, which, in retrospect, was probably not a good thing to do to a novice like him.  It probably looked like a freaky-deaky torture chest.  “Do you think the cops are carrying around a thousand dollars’ worth of SM equipment?”

He was so nervous that I offered him a drink from the minibar–he had two rums and Coke.  It’s something I do automatically for all clients; I forgot he was too young to legally drink!  Perversely, this is what I feel the most guilty about…giving liquor to a minor!  I’d hate to encourage a kid to get a habit that becomes a problem, like mine.

We did the session.  It was simple: a little tease and denial, clothed female naked male, very light bondage, and some spanking (no marks, nothing very heavy).  He came three times.  The first two times were involuntary, lol.   He was really embarrassed by that, but I just found it amusing.  The stamina teenagers have, WOW!  I don’t have a lot of experience with young men…just a few.  Even when I was his age, I was almost exclusively attracted to much older men, so this was an almost-novel experience for me.

Well, he wanted to book another session with me, and I thought long and hard about it.  I don’t want to be responsible for corrupting the youth!  PLEEZE PASS THE HEMLOCK (I am not seriously comparing myself to Socrates.  Just trying to make a joke.)

But then I thought: If he doesn’t see me, he’ll choose another, and who knows what he’s going to get?  At least I can…keep him safe, and give him a quality experience within his boundaries.  A safe place to explore.  What if he gets someone like Bad Domme?

Which brings us to the Tale of the Bad Domme.

There was a woman I worked with at the Studio who sexually assaulted her clients.  I’ve honestly never heard of anything like it.  I worked in commercial dungeons, all in all, for approximately 3 years total, and I never heard of anything like her, but she exists, so, it happens.

Intelligent woman.  Not educated, but intelligent, you can tell by listening to her speak.  Quick with the wit, observant, keen.  She also had a great sense of humor. She was aggressive.  A true Domme/Top…not like me, who’s more of a Service Top when I’m in that role.

She was beautiful, a stone fox.  We attracted a few of the same clients because we were both tall, leggy, and had similar coloring–light hair, light eyes.  Some drive-thru dungeon clients just pick a domme based on the physical “type” they are attracted to, so we got the same clients even though our personalities and temperaments were very different (most notably: I am….calm.  She does not).  She was younger than me, though.

She liked me a lot, and I know why: she was the same age as my students, and I was highly educated even though I came from a working-class background like she did, and she looked up to me and wanted my approval.

I liked her too…at first.  She was hilarious, generous, attractive.   Emotionally raw and transparent, which is a little fascinating for a super-cerebral INTJ like myself.

As I got to know her better, though, I started to withdraw almost at once.

She was very emotional, but her emotions were primitive, not complex.  Also, she was impulsive and fearless, which sets off tons of red flags.  And the aggression!

As I mentioned, we shared a few of the same clients…

….and I started to hear stories about her, from them.

I heard from four clients in all, over a period of about three months.  The story was the same, every time: she tied them up (which they had asked for), and anally penetrated them (which they HADN’T asked for).  

They were all uniformly aghast and appalled at their experience, of course.  They said things like (I’ll never forget): “I didn’t want to see a domme again for about seven months.  It made me really afraid to trust a domme again” and “I’ll never let a domme tie me up again.  I can’t do bondage any more” and “I can’t believe that happened to me.”

These guys contacted the dungeon before they came back to make sure this domme was NOT WORKING when they wanted to come in.  They were afraid of her.

As they should be.

I’ve heard of dommes doing batshit-crazy behaviors.

I’ve never heard of a woman sexually assaulting men/clients like that.  It’s disgusting!  There’s nothing wrong with getting butt-fucked, if that’s your thing, but you can’t do it to someone who doesn’t want it!  That’s sexual assault!  If you reverse the genders, it is obviously and completely criminal and unacceptable!  It’s not less reprehensible just because the victim is a dude!

And these clients WERE JUST THE ONES I HEARD FROM!  Who knows how long she’d been doing this?  When this happens to men, they are even less likely to talk about it…and she knew it.  She knew she could do it with impunity.  What is a client (probably married) going to do?  Go to the police and say, “I was sneaking off to the dungeon during my lunch break, and my dominatrix tied me up and fucked me up the ass with her fingers even though I asked her to stop?”  Of course that’s not going to happen!

This is wrong on so many levels!  These men are paying a lot of money for a professional service.  They are trusting us and putting themselves in a vulnerable situation.  How can you do this to them?  And, also, who the hell wants to stick their fingers in some random stranger’s ass, especially if they are freaking out?

Answer: a psychopath and/or some sort of fucked-up sexual predator.

I approached the Bad Domme about this.  She didn’t deny doing it.  AT ALL.  (Why not?  If I did it, which I can’t even imagine,, I’d fucking LIE about it.) 

“He wanted to be dominated.  Are you telling me you feel sorry for these guys?” she asked, with an eye-roll.

Well, yeah, I guess sexually assaulting a person is DOMINATING them.   And the clients were confiding in me and treated me perfectly okay in our time together, so, yeah, I do feel sorry for them.  Nobody deserves to be penetrated against their will.  What is wrong with you?  As a woman, how could you not know this?

But I knew, instinctively, that she DID know it…and that she was doing this for revenge. 

But that’s not okay.  That’s something you need to work through with a psychologist.  I admit that I have deeply ambivalent feelings towards men, because of my life experiences with them, but I am not motivated to be a domme/fetish worker because of my hostility towards men.  I feel compassion for my clients (unless they are total jerks), because I know what it’s like to have weird sexuality and needs, and I am open-minded and…well, I’m me!

I didn’t confront her further, because I was afraid of her.  Bitch could kick my ass.

I went to a manager I trusted and told her what I knew.

She was not sympathetic to the clients.  Hate to tell you that, clients who are reading this blog, but that’s the truth.

I tried another tactic, since the appeal to human decency wasn’t working out well: “What she’s doing is illegal!  What if she brings the cops down on this place?”

“Ha!  You think the client is going to complain to the cops?” the manager laughed.  And, as we know, she was right.

Bad Mistress was fired a few months later…for punching another woman in the face, in the locker room.

She went to another commercial dungeon, but I don’t see her listed on the Mistress page there anymore.  I assume they fired her, too.

If you are a client in the Tri-State area, email me and I’ll tell you who she is.  She’s dangerous.  My email is

I have to go to work now, but, to wrap this up: I was thinking to myself, what if my young 19-year-old client booked a session with someone like her…?  What would that do to him…?

I can keep him safe.