Strict Bondage Stories

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Strict Bondage Stories
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I am not your normal, everyday dominatrix. I don’t stalk into the dungeon at midnight, don thigh-high leather boots, and beat a white, middle-aged CEO to a bloody pulp while screaming, “Worthless Pig!” Nope, I am the shy neighbor next door. I could be sitting next to you on the subway smirking at the New Yorker cartoons or cycling past you in the park on my racing bike. I love dogs, swimming in the ocean, long walks on moonlit nights, and well, I happen to like to hurt people.
On a typical day, I ride my bike down to my private studio in the financial district of Manhattan by 9 in the morning. Once there, I move through a few yoga salutations and burn sage. After checking emails and voice messages, I change into a three-piece Armani suit to greet the first client, who could be a musician, a policeman, or a Yale professor. In my regular client pool, I have many female clients, some gay, some straight. I also see a lot of couples. Sometimes I teach one partner how to dominate the other. Sometimes I dominate both partners. I even have a handful of gay, male masters who come to submit to me. But the truth still remains that the majority of my clients (and all sex industry clientele) are straight men (straight men who secretly want to suck cock, that is).
I sit down with each client for 10 to 15 minutes. I offer them a glass of water and listen to them talk about their expectations and absolute limits. I ask them about health issues that I should be concerned about (such as diabetes, asthma, bad knees) and about their past experience in BDSM. I want to know what led them into the realm of Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism and also, why they are specifically seeing me. This tells me a lot about the person I am about to deal with. Many of these questions have already been discussed by email before I have agreed to see them. But I like to watch the person tell me about him or herself. They are inevitably nervous. As they should be.
I screen clients rigorously. Most email requests are deleted by the time I read the first line (“goddess, can i lik ur boots”–bad grammar and spelling! DELETE!) and I am extremely discriminating regarding tone of voice and language. A client once called and passed all my tests until he closed with, “I’ll see you soon, baby.” I canceled the meeting. I may be a snob, but this is an intimate interaction I engage in—I must genuinely like the person I am binding and hurting. I have a rule: If I feel that I cannot have a respectable conversation with the client, then I shouldn’t take them on. This shuts my doors to Asian fetishists, guilty married men and inner misogynists who disguise resentment with worship. I also don’t take on foot worship or verbal humiliation scenes. I get too bored and too ticklish with hour-long foot worship; I don’t have it in me to curse someone out unless they’ve really pissed me off.
Once I’ve extracted enough information from a client and earned his trust, I bring him to “The Pit,” a small room that is painted entirely black with only one floor light illuminating the hooks and bondage rack that line the walls. I tell clients to ready themselves by placing their clothes neatly in the closet and to wait on their knees until I come to fetch them. The next two hours (minimum) of session, they are mine.
My sessions range from strict disciplinarian training and heavy bondage to shamanistic ritual work. I have a solid rep in the industry of being a severe sadist and skilled Shibari (rope bondage) expert. I want to write that I am laid-back and easy-going, but I’m not casual about my career. I love the protocol, the pain, the taboo.
The main room of my studio is called “The Dojo” and it looks like one. Clean white walls, enormous mirrors, and a steel suspension beams run along the fourteen-foot ceilings. My hemp ropes are meticulously wound, color-coordinated, and hung in a row. Red rope is 50 feet. Black rope is 25 feet. The whips hang separately from the paddles. The latex is always set apart from leather. (Leather eventually eats away at rubber—you can just imagine the symbolism here regarding primal and man-made powers). At my studio, I am a perfectionist, a control-freak. Of course.
I like to think that I push people beyond the obvious. I encourage clients to focus on the strength and honor within them to reach a mental state of openness and vulnerability. I remind the sub (submissive) to breathe deeply and steadily, teaching tantric techniques to use the endorphins from the pain to push into a state of natural high. In another kind of session, I might shove my rubber-gloved fist in the sub’s anus and call a client a slut (one of the highest terms of endearment in this industry because it implies ownership), but I would never call him or her stupid or worthless. They’d better be worthy, damn it, if I’m going to spend my time training them.
I am Mistress Y. I am hiding my identity here for obvious reasons of discretion, not so much for myself but for my clients. Most dominatrices feel the need to hide their scene-identities from their vanilla world. That is one of the reasons they take on names like “Venus” and “Pandora.” Perhaps it is to emulate a goddess mentality, to step up from being just another downtown deviant with cool tattoos to being a diva for a few hours. But another valid reason is to allot mental separation from their full personality to the role that they take on in sessions. Going into sessions for many is like playacting a part that they’ve always yearned to star in—for both clients and dominatrix. I don’t change my name for my profession (just shorten it for this diary). I am not playing a role. I have always enjoyed pain.
I’ve been a professional dominatrix for seven years. I’ve wanted to be a dominatrix since I was a 16-year-old Goth chick. I remember buying my first crop and cat-mask at The Leather Man. My high school girlfriend and I had spent a sweltering summer day reveling in the glory of the Gay Pride March. With her hair dyed purple and mine, a shaved blue, we felt like the lollipop kids dancing alongside the grand trannys of Oz. We began skipping hand-in-hand down Christopher Street, rainbow flags swirling around us, and there it was—my first Leather Daddy—a buff, hugely packed mannequin dressed in leather chaps and officer’s cap—demanding that I get on my knees and crawl into the store to find my calling. I pulled Daniella into the store with me. Suddenly all my pride drained and I was trembling in a shop that smelled like power—primal and ecstatic. Black leather gear and heavy steel instruments hung in rows. Toned, beautiful men turned their eyes on us with curiosity, then turned away, some sneering, some indifferent. But one, sweet leather-fag reached out his Glenda-esque hand and asked me if I needed help (“Sir, yes please, sir”). And that’s how I found home.
That evening, after we returned to New Jersey from the long day of stomping around the Village and trying to cop weed in Washington Square, I fastened on my mask, pulled out my crop, and proceeded to strike Daniella’s cute, teenage ass. She yelped and threw her boot at my head. I lunged at her and grabbed her throat before forcing my lips on hers. I didn’t know about negotiations or safe words then.
I soon learned a lot about safe words and other key elements of the craft in SM 101 , Jay Wiseman’s great handbook for the novice. I raged through my teenage and early twenties with lots of brutal sex: slapping, spitting, choking my girlfriend or boyfriend while Perry Farrell wailed affirmation in the background, “Sex is Violence!” Somehow, my childish flirtations of biting kids on the playground turned into: If I like you, I’ll tie you down and cut you…or myself. I was also a mad cutter, slicing myself to feel the brilliant despair of teen woes. I was my own voodoo doll of bruises and scars, trying to work the magic of love.
During my college years, while I was interning at the Whitney Museum and making only enough cash to eat Cheerios three times a day, I set out to interview at several Houses of Domination in New York City. I laced myself into a corset, painted on my eyebrows, and trotted on patent heels into the office of one very well-known establishment. I instantly fell in love with the dark red, velvet walls and gold painted columns that surrounded the reception area. I refused to care that the burning incense still didn’t cover a strange, underlying, bodily-secretion smell. I admired the fancy, gilt chandelier and kept from looking at the trash can that was overflowing with used condoms and mottled paper towels. I stood with perfect posture as the icy receptionist told me in a combination of European accents that they already had a Japanese Mistress working for them (I am of Chinese descent). At the time, there were only token minorities to fill race-fetish slots. “We only need one oriental girl for now and Mistress Ju-ki,” the receptionist lowered her eyes to my waistline, “fits the style more.” I assumed that she meant that Ju-ki was waif-thin, the stereotypical, chopstick body that Asian girls are known for, but I reached to tighten my corset anyhow. As I left, she casually suggested, “You should try sniffing cocaine.”
At another New York House, where the office and dungeon area were fit into the same dark room, a tall, German Dominatrix, who claimed to be the Head Mistress, leaned over the desk, moving aside a heavy pile of chains with her even heavier hands, looked down at me from her six-inch platform stilettos, and spat, “You’re too short.”
I was devastated. I was told that I was short and fat—humiliated! And I wasn’t even a client! Regardless of the insults, I was distraught that I couldn’t get hired as a dominatrix. I was attending one of the country’s most prestigious universities. I was on the Dean’s list. I was 5’7” and 125 pounds. And I was mean, damn it, or at least I wanted to be! I craved digging my fingers into my lover’s nipples. I was thrilled by tying and tethering and feeling them struggle beneath my thighs. I had a string of lovers with my signature permanently marked somewhere on their body. My predatory ego was not dissuaded. I needed to be a Dominatrix.
I needed this job, or else I’d really hurt someone.

Up Next: Learning the Ropes
This is my first visit to SMITH magazine. I was immediately drawn to your writing, and could not stop reading. I think your story is fascinating. The married men disguising resentment with worship is a powerful observation, and terrifying. I think we have a lot of that going on in this culture. Thanks for the invitation into your rich, honest world.
I am both interested and intrigued not from a participant’s point of view but from the humanistic/psychological angle. I like learning how people think. I look forward to reading more.
All I want to know is whether you’ll remember to thank Larry when you get your book deal.
Really well done. You’re leaving your mark with words.
Words can’t begin to thank you for such a stunning addition to SMITH - I’ve gone ahead and got all my ropes and extension cords in my garage dialed in as I just felt so un- in control…
Fascinating! (Who knew there was an interview process?) I want to hear more, more, more…
That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to know how that worked, being personally convinced that sex industry workers are not the trash people make them out to be.
I’m reading ‘Venus in Furs’ for the first time and I think your SMITH diary is going to make a perfect counterpoint. How does a college student find out where ‘houses of domination’ are in New York City, anyway? I think my favorite/the most interesting thing about the story so far is your sense of purpose, knowing that this was for you. It’s admirable.
Mistress Y writes in a wonderful, captivating style. It is so open and honest and yet so seductive and desireable. You want to know more. It makes you want to find her and submit I want to learn more about this fasinating lady and her sadistic ways.
This is very interesting, it seems many people like you for being so strong in character and personality. I have been working in a psychiatric ward and discussed these (SM), cutting, humiliation issues with many friends who are in the psychological healthcare field, who would mostly classify the whole issue as pathological and dangerous ( for many clients’ mental instability). However, I personally don’t quite agree. I believe there is more to BDSM and in a way it can be ‘healing’ for people as well as functioning as a way of finding oneself.
Cheers
Ahu
I read your blog with great interest, this is something that I want to get into but not really sure how to, in the UK there does not seem to be many places around and would love to know the best way to get started or at last spend time with someone learning more about this, any ideas
i am a nyc fashion photographer. I am doing a fashion story this month (june25th) I am hoping to fine a respectable professional Shibari bondage person to make my fashion story amazing. please contact me ASAP!!
thank you,
M
You write beautifully. Thankyou for this insight into your life.
Hello Mistress Y, I enjoyed reading your story, you exude an inner strength that is admirable. With determination like yours you will get what you want, go for it, I think you are a competent Mistress that will fulfill all of your dreams and ambitions.
Thank you for sharing your story with the public. It was very enjoyable and interesting reading.
As a soldier and currently writing a novel, I was struck with your perspective. It shined some insight into a brush I once had with a stripper.
To the dominatrix next toor “Straight men who want to suck kock”? Take it into ur empty head that straight men would NEVER want 2 suck cock as it’s utterly disgusting 4 them even 2 watch it let alone do it.. So who can they be? They’re either bi or gays, this is as simple as that.
Mistress Y - thank you for your evocative story of how and why you do what you do. We almost moved into an apartment on the beach, next door to a Dominatrix, and as a writer, I was utterly intrigued and curious about what she did. It takes great strength, courage and determination to follow a path that makes you happy. Bravo on finding your niche and for telling your story so eloquently.
I don’t know how I ended up here. I was looking up dominatrix costumes because that’s what I’m gonna be for halloween. But I read this whole thing & it’s very interesting! Good job on telling your story so well
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My story starts many years ago when as student in my twenties I lived in London….on my way home from college one day I passed a local corner shop when my eye was dawn to a beautifully hand written postcard pinned to the local services notice board in the window….it read Retired Professional Lady seeks Part Time Cleaner... uniform and training will be provided.
Several days passed and I noticed the advert was still in the window…. so I out of interest I took down the telephone number.
Later that evening I found the piece of crumpled paper with the telephone number on …. I hesitated but thought I needed a bit of pin money so I will give it go.
The number rang for or what seemed a lifetime and then a crystal clear female voice answered the phone.
I responded in a flurry of words saying that I was interested in the advertised position of cleaner. ….I explained that as a student I was looking for some part time work.
”Would you have time come for an interview this evening and perhaps if you are happy with my terms you can start straight away”….I agreed and the arrangement was made to see her that evening.
The trip to the address was uneventful, it was a grey October evening and the address was just two stops away on the underground... I climbed up the steps to an imposing black painted front door
I pressed the door bell... no response….I press the door bell again still no response...but just as I turning to go away the door opened. A voice echoed from the darkness of a long hallway.
“You must have come about the cleaning situation...please come in…”
I followed the slim figure along the hall way into a side room which looked like a traditional school study I followed her in…. The walls of the small were covered with framed photographs of school groups. A sturdy wooden desk took central position with a large wooden wardrobe standing in the corner .
“My name is Miss Osbourne….and as you may gathered from the photographs on the wall I am a retired Headmistress...”
She turned around to look at the at the photographs
“I look back on time as a headmistress with great pride”
She caught my eye and for a brief moment I felt slightly embarrassed.
”What is your name…”
“John”
“Well John I should explain I was really looking for a young lady for the post of cleaner but I am willing to give you trial if you don’t mind wearing a uniform….”
“No I’m quite happy to wear whatever you provide”
“Good...but there is one thing...I would want to call you by girls name...would you be you happy with that”.
I thought this was some sort of joke and just smiled and nodded in acceptance ….
‘Well John...if you don’t mind I’m going to call you Joanna while you are in my employment...do you mind if I call you Joanna”
I hesitated ....at this point I had half a mind to leave the room but there was something compelling about this mysterious lady...
I heard myself say…
”I think Joanna is fine...”
There was a pause…
”Good...you see all my working life as a Headmistress I have instilled the principle of discipline and correction in all my work…..do you understand what I mean”
I nodded more in curiosity than understanding.
‘I would like you to call me Mistress at all times….is that clear...”

Kirstens Archieves
Bailey Jay New
E621 Female