My Story

At the front door of La Maison du Rouge (my former play space), ‘J’ stands with his mouth open. I know he wants to say something – to protest, to plead, to beg – but he stops himself.

Good boy.

Underneath the thin fabric of his dress slacks I can just make out the frame of his chastity cage and, as he notices me noticing him, he shifts uncomfortably from side to side. My lips spread into a smile.

“Let’s just see how the weekend goes,” I tell him.

‘J’ nods – pitifully – and then shuffles off to face the rest of his day. I begin to tidy up: ropes are coiled, gags are washed, and canes are put away in their proper order. I think about how for weeks now I’ve been meaning to add a little something to our collection.

Something old school.
Something wicked.

Most of all, I want a feather duster. Not one of those dainty little things that French Maids tote around (although I do have a few Sissy Maids who would look good with one), but the nasty Asian variety with their long necks and wooden handles. I’d take a rug beater too, or even a stirring chopstick. They all make excellent correctional tools.

Trust me, I know.

Back when I grew up in pre-tech, pre-gentrified San Francisco, my sister and I endured such improvised beatings on a regular basis. Talking back? That’s a beating. Bad grades? That’s a beating. Try to resist a beating?

You guessed it, that’s a beating.

The only time it wasn’t a beating was when we were quỳ-ing, a Vietnamese form of punishment where you kneel facing a wall with your hands folded in front of you and if you dare try to sit back on your feet…


And should you ever find yourself thinking “That’s not so bad!” feel free to book an appointment where I will be happy to change your mind.

Not that I blame my mother for any of this, by the way: single mom, two kids, twelve moves in twelve years. She had to keep the peace somehow. Though as hard as she disciplined me I made it a point to never give in – no crying, no whimpering. That’s just the kind of kid I was.

Of course this made her go even harder on me, but as a self-respecting Tiger Mom that’s just who she was. We were yin and yang, the beater and the beaten.

We were yin and yang, the beater and the beaten.


I know what you’re thinking.

“So THAT’S why you became a Dominatrix!

No. No, it isn’t. It’s just one piece of the puzzle. Sure, that’s how I learned to take a savage beating and yes, with all the moving around I also learned to read people and adapt to them, but there’s much more to it than that.

I remember being with my first love at the tender age of fifteen when I cupped his balls in my hand and said: “Tell me when it starts to hurt.” I squeezed, my fingers clenching into a tight fist. He yelped for mercy and I continued just a little bit more before relenting.

Why did I do that?

Well, I wasn’t trying to be cruel – I promise. We were simply two people so comfortable and open with each other that we could freely explore ourselves without shame or judgment. And we did! Our shared curiosity lead us to many firsts in life, each of them a loving, healthy, and most importantly fun experience.

Meanwhile, the rest of my life was also slowly becoming speckled with kink without me even realizing it. Trips to the Folsom Street Fair were second nature to me, and I didn’t think twice about spending my twenty-first birthday on a stripper pole at AsiaSF, wrapped in a hot pink boa and surrounded by the most gorgeous performers you’ve ever seen. Nor was there anything strange about indulging an early Craigslister in his used panty fetish or putting my fledgling makeup artist skills to work on a group of crossdressers who went out partying each month.

These were all just everyday experiences for me and had you asked me then if I identified as a deviant I would’ve burst out into laughter.

Things were different when I moved to New York.

Unlike San Francisco, New York’s a city about pressure and release. People work long hours, they rush everywhere, and when they finally get the chance to blow off some steam they go hard.

However, even in this new land kink began creeping back into my life. It started with my fellow fashionista coworkers calling me a Dragon Lady, an unintended nod to my mother’s domineering ways. Then people began to confide me that they thought I’d make an excellent – actual! – Dominatrix.

The thought had never even crossed my mind!

But I suppose people saw something in me. Then, one night, I found myself in a stereotypical New York dive. You know the type:
Dark wood.
Dim lighting.
Wines ranging from red to white.

A woman approached me and revealed herself to be a Dominatrix. She was elegant and poised, a Renaissance sculpture standing tall in a sea of motion and chaos. We chatted for a bit before she told me she thought I’d be good for the job. She said she’d even be willing to teach me.

“Why?” I asked her.

The woman explained it to me like it was the most obvious thing in the world:
Here I was in this crowded bar all dressed up and all by myself, without showing even the slightest drop of anxiety or hesitation. That’s what it takes, she said.

Unwavering confidence.

Of course I was flattered. And it was an intriguing prospect, for sure. But I told her I already had a full time job and was busy enough with that. She didn’t press the issue and before long we were both on our way.

But the idea stayed in the back of my mind, mingling with all those other suggestions and experiences I’d had. Maybe she’s right, I thought.

Just a few weeks later I found out my current partner had an obscene amount of BDSM porn on his computer. We’re talking digital archives levels here, covering a huge swath of the fetish spectrum. I made him show me video after video and as I watched transfixed and fascinated, I knew I wanted to explore this world even further.

My first professional experience was with a house in downtown New York, and my first client was a man we called Baby Arm (I’ll let you figure out why). Do you know what surprised me the most about the whole thing? How much laughing there was – it reminded me of being in bed with my first love all those years ago, indulging each other’s curiosity.

It was such good, clean, kinky fun. I loved it.

During my first few months at this house I learned the ins and outs of what it meant to dominate someone, from proper bondage rope work to the way different materials impact the body to how each Domina has to find her own personal style. What started as a part time gig quickly became a full time one and soon enough I was the one training new Dominas (which I also absolutely adored doing). This was me in a way I’d never known before, the culmination of all my self-exploration.

I had found my calling.

And, as with all callings, there comes a time when you have to trade in comfort for growth. For me this meant creating something that was truly my own and so, after five wonderful years as part of this house, I left to create La Maison du Rouge alongside the inimitable Domina Dia Dynasty. Together we set out to find a space where our vision could take root and that it did for six more years. LMDR became more than I could ever imagine . . . a FemDomme hub of community and learning. However, as the world entered a pandemic, I like many others reflected on the future. Again the time had come to evolve and grow.

My new chapter is still being written but trust me it’s going to be a spectacular adventure . . . one you do not want to miss.