Whip His Balls

Whip His Balls

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Kinky couples need therapy, too. That’s where dominatrix Lia Holmgren comes in. The New York-based intimacy coach charges $500 an hour for adventurous pairs looking to explore their BDSM side.
Holmgren also provides apartment therapy. On a consultation in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the 35-year-old blonde suggested a “blow job chair” and other sex-conducive furniture. Family photos, however, had to go. “She got rid of all the unsexy things in our bedroom,” one client, wearing a leather dog mask to protect his identity, told The Post.

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Valerie Baber shares a typical day in the life of a dominatrix.
James Creighton

Filed under

dominatrixes

Jobs

sex and relationships

valerie baber

12/6/14

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Valerie Baber has been a Playboy model, a call girl and a sex therapist . But there’s one popular career the “sexpert” has never tried — dominatrix. Here, the author of “Notorious VIP: Confessions of An Emperor’s Club Companion” and a forthcoming collection of essays, describes her trip to a Midtown dungeon — discovering that it’s a far cry from the “Fifty Shades of Grey” fantasy.
What exactly does one wear to an office interview to inquire about the position of a vinyl-clad, corporal-punishment officer? Even if I did have a full-body PVC suit, how well would that have gone over on the subway?
I opted for a black pencil skirt and a dark, V-neck burgundy top, vamped up my eye makeup, put on some patent leather high heels and hoped that I wouldn’t look too corporate.
After exiting the subway at Bryant Park, I walked a few blocks and called from my phone when standing at the corner the dungeon had specified in a Craigslist ad. Only then would I be given the exact address of their location.
Though legal, as long as they didn’t offer sex for money, dominatrix clubs like to remain inconspicuous — shielded from prying eyes and wives.
The dungeon was located inside a nondescript office building. After being buzzed into the entrance, I walked up to the second floor. Then, I buzzed again and waited behind another locked door.
A black-haired, dark-eyed woman came to greet me, although it was less of a greeting than a simple permission to enter. Leading me down scarcely decorated hallways painted in a shade of merlot, she finally brought me to an office where I waited in a black leather chair.
The monitor hanging from the wall in front of her had glimpses of rooms, hallways and the street outside on what appeared to be about 15 different split screens. Something was always happening. A girl in a plastic nurse uniform or in leopard-print leggings would take a moment in the hallway before returning to a session. Girls entered the office to vent about their clients.
“. . . They don’t usually ask for the straddle bar that soon.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant or if I wanted to know.
The Asian girl who said it came in with tattoos and a no-nonsense attitude. She explained to the man inside a walk-in closet off the lobby that she needed something serious.
The mysterious closet man looked through the assortment of whips and devices hung on the wall and offered one to her. She declined. It needed to hurt more than that. She agreed on another large, black whipping device, took
what appeared to be a can of beer from a mini-fridge in the closet because her client was “going to need this,” and walked back out.
Finally, some basic questions were asked. What would my mistress name be? Did I have any experience? Could I begin immediately?
I picked “Vivienne” as my nom de guerre and answered honestly about my age, 34. The blonde turned around to look at me with wide eyes. I was probably 10 years older than the average mistress.
I was told that part-time work meant spending three days a week in the studio. There were two shifts available, 10 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. or 6:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. The mistresses would earn $80 for each hour they worked and could earn tips, sometimes at 100 percent or more for the session. The house paid their girls every two weeks in cash.
Their list of services was long: puppy training, cross-dressing, feminization, verbal humiliation, human ashtray, corporal punishment and medical play, among others.
My interviewer reminded me that, of course, there would be no prostitution, but it was also alluded to that it would be unwise to say no to a man’s role-play fantasy if you were his chosen one.
Some men actually like novices best, she said. So it could help you make money if you’re not sure what to do. Actually, she said, “We have a regular here right now. He loves new girls.”
Steve would come in for 10 hours at a time and rent a playroom to live out his perversions and fantasies with a number of mistresses simultaneously. He tipped very, very well and he would love me. I was just his type, according to the woman.
She insisted that I meet him just to test the chemistry, so I was taken back to a dimly lit playroom filled in old Victorian décor, dark wood and an embroidered carpet that needed cleaning. Classic piano music played from a small stereo on a side table.
Their list of services was long: puppy training, cross-dressing, feminization, verbal humiliation, human ashtray, corporal punishment and medical play, among others.
Steve stood up to reveal the full glory of his Desert Storm uniform, looked at me through his slightly tinted sunglasses and smiled a hello.
There were four women in the room including me, and Soldier Steve attempted to make us feel comfortable by offering us plastic cups of sugary champagne that he topped with small strawberries.
Several boxed champagne bottles sat atop tall dressers. He took six and put then in a burlap sack with a hook at the end. We could see from the shape of his tighty-whities that he was enjoying our company. Attaching the filled sack to his (still covered) erection, he took away his hands while managing to keep the weight from touching the ground.
In an emotion between discomfort and delight, we exchanged laughs and words of encouragement over his curious display. That would have been somewhere around 20 pounds lifted by one average penis. Impressive.
This went straight to my Top 5 most memorable icebreaker moments.
Steve then described the fantasy that he would have us act out — all of us. It was an elaborate one.
His main mistress for the day, a demure one in the cocktail dress, would pretend to be a well-to-do fashion model with a swanky Manhattan apartment. Her apartment would house her, her three female sex slaves and her one male slave (him). She would have to run out for a moment to do some glamorous errands or to have drinks with her beautiful friends — whatever it is wealthy supermodels do.
However, upon returning, she would catch us in the act of forced coitus.
She would go into a fury and, despite our protests, decide that the best thing to do would be to punish all the women.
Once our cheeks were nice and red, it would occur to her that she actually had cameras in all her rooms. Much to Steve’s dismay, her findings would have her return in another fury. The female slaves would be proven innocent, and it would be everyone’s turn to seek revenge for this horrible wrongdoing by punishing Steve.
Three white camisoles hung from knobs on a wooden dresser. They were there for us to wear, Steve explained. Manhattan sex slaves wear white tops in his fantasy. He reached out to me with a chemise in his hand. I paused, then took it.
He gave his permission to skip the rape part. We all agreed that would be too complex to act out and were happy to go straight to the part of the argument about who did what. On that decision, the scene began.
“You’ve defiled my slave,” Head Mistress said while trying not to laugh.
I had thought that in a “role play” studio, these girls might actually be aspiring screen and stage starlets, but if anyone had any acting chops, they were spared.
Even Steve didn’t bother making his part too realistic. He grinned the entire way through. I attempted to understand what it was about this that was so appealing to him.
I also questioned myself. If I weren’t in a dungeon, and a man told me he had a group rape fantasy, would I remain so willing to stay in an enclosed room with him? What exactly was he getting out of being dressed like a Gulf War soldier in a room adorned in faux antiques?
My time was limited, but the rest of the girls had all day, so I was the one to be punished first. The Head Mistress, dressed now only in an intricate lingerie set, sat on a bench and instructed me to bend over her knees.
I had dropped my black business skirt by this time; the mistress spanked me and told me that I must thank her for my punishment.
She accused me of being defiant. Another spank.
“Oww.” It only stung mildly, and more pleasantly than painfully, but I had to say something.
“OK. I’m sorry. I might have done it.”
When she decided my half-confession was good enough, she released me. I pulled up my bottoms, bent over in the floor-length mirror to glance at the pink spot that appeared on my left cheek.
All the female slaves had been properly spanked when the Head Mistress suddenly remembered, as instructed, that she had video that she could refer to in order to verify our deceit.
As I had limited playtime, and since Steve would want to see what sort of prowess the new girl brought to the table, I went first, again.
I opted for a golf glove. Steve, half grinning the entire time, bent over my closed lap.
I began with swats more delicate than not, first on one cheek, then on the other, taking care to put some pressure on each cheek after the hit. I thought I was doing a good job, but Steve was a cheeky soldier and pretended to fall asleep and snore during his discipline session. We were clearly going to have to take a different tactic.
Head Mistress selected a lightweight, felt paddle from the hooks on the door and handed it to me in exchange for my glove. I took a few attempted strikes and decided I disliked it. It lacked direction and impact. It had no “oomph.” I gave it back.
“Give her the paddle brush,” our wanting solider suggested.
Paddle brushes look innocent, but a lot of things that are dangerous appear to be innocent. I learned this quickly. I wasn’t going to let Steve fall asleep on me. I’d be dammed if I walked out of that room with three women and one man pitying my weakness and inferiority as a mistress.
It’s surprising how much of a splitting crack can come from a hairbrush when applied to one’s posterior with the right amount of determination. The expression on Soldier Steve changed. He was awake. THWACK! The girls readjusted, Steve grimaced. I smoothed his cheek and checked in with the Head Mistress. She didn’t tell me to stop, so I did it again. A succession of sharp-sounding swats came at Steve, whose distress was increasingly difficult to keep hidden under his forced smile. He had to endure this from three more women. I gave up my seat.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I had reached the end of my hour. Steve suggested it was too bad that I couldn’t stay.
I told Steve he deserved everything he had coming to him and took a crispy $100 bill he offered as appreciation for something I still can’t quite explain.
I thought about whether I could actually handle 24 hours a week locked in this unwelcoming dungeon of dark, sexual unconventionality. I have never exactly considered myself conventional, but there was something to this specific situation that was particularly disconcerting.
It might seem like being a dominatrix is easier than being a call girl, or a stripper. After all, you don’t have to dance or have sex. You get to beat up men all day — and get paid for it.
But after spanking a guy who enjoys hanging champagne from his manhood, I learned that this isn’t an easy job.
There are some deep and potentially dangerous triggers here — and New York men are just a little too weird for me.

From Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository
Please note that low-quality images with no realistic educational use nor a purpose within the Wikimedia projects may be deleted . For further information, see Commons:Nudity .
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Male genital piercings ‎ (11 C, 1 P, 89 F)

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