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He’s a banker who has ducked out of his Midtown office for an “early lunch.” He’s buzzed in, and the manager meets him at the suite door and escorts him into the Red Room. merciful in your correction.” Visibly aroused, he croaks, “I choose you.” I leave so the manager can extract the fee — 0 an hour or 0 for a half-hour, cash. But tips and fees can be enormous, and that can grease the skids, among other things, with some girls.

If he didn’t make an appointment with a particular girl, there’s a “meet.” We totter in one at a time. The girls get out of that, per hour, plus tips. We serve men who come from all over the tri-state area to have their deepest, darkest desires fulfilled, fantasies they’re terrified to reveal to their own spouses.

My client has requested a drink — scotch — and I carefully pour it from our bar. Behind the doors I pass, I hear slaps, low voices of mistresses giving orders, men mumbling as they struggle to comply.

Farther down is the Black Dungeon, with its own bathroom, shower and an imposing, black-leather four-poster bed with complicated suspensions hanging from the top.

There is no mattress, just a black leather pad and chains hanging from each corner.

The Red Dungeon features gas masks, carnival masks and an enormous leather straitjacket hanging from a mannequin.

Some men come in for foot worship or trampling, so most of us are ready with fresh pedis. There is a girl who keeps her own bamboo canes to beat clients.

He has requested a “sensual domme” beforehand, so I know exactly how to treat him. In the office, I’m handed a buzzer and black-fabric basket. Some clients, especially the drugged-up, wired ones, will stay for eight hours at a stretch, until closing at a.m., racking up bills well into the four figures.

His first question: “Will you spank me gently and chastise me so that I may beg forgiveness for being unworthy of you? I cup his chin in my hand and lift his face to mine. The basket is filled with whatever toys, whips, floggers or costumes I think he’ll want. When the buzzer sounds and blinks red, the session is over and the decidedly unglamorous part of the job begins, the part you don’t see in books and movies. Every girl gets a spray bottle of alcohol and gloves — for cleanup.

The medical rooms are framed by polished white tile and centered by a reclining physician’s table covered in butcher paper. Tongue depressors and cotton swabs peek out from the glass doors of metal cabinets. To get an appointment, you need to find the website and fill out a “slave application.” “Are you into infantilism? Those are the girls — as many as nine at a time — chatting, changing clothes, trying shoes, applying lipstick, watching movies, swapping costumes.

“These rooms are for men with medical fetishes,” my trainer told me on my first day as a mistress apprentice. ” I asked, thinking of the usual slutty-nurse fantasies. Sorry, ladies, there are no Christian Grey-like “masters” working in real-life dungeons. I don’t fix my hair, and I’m not wearing makeup until just before my eight-hour shift begins. Or else you get nothing today.” I turn around and set the basket on the floor, bending over so he can see under my dress, see the tops of my stockings and black vinyl panties. I settle myself into a leather throne and extend my hand, now holding the whip.

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