I never thought I’d actually go through with it.
I’d read the listings before — late at night in lonely hotel rooms, scrolling through my phone, half-curious, half-ashamed. But something about this particular night was different. Maybe it was the empty silence after another conference call, maybe the stale hotel air that smelled too clean, or maybe it was simply that I felt... invisible.
Married for fifteen years. Two kids. A suburban home outside of Adelaide. Most of the time, I play my role well — dependable husband, diligent employee, reliable provider. But Melbourne brings something out in me. The city pulses after dark. Something about the glowing trams and alleys dusted with rain makes everything feel more possible.
I was in town for three nights. Alone. And this time, instead of just browsing, I sent a message.
A Discreet Encounter
I’d found her ad on Locanto — discreet and simple, with no pictures of her face, just a gloved hand wrapped around a riding crop. The title read:
“Elegant, discreet dominatrix in Melbourne. Sessions for those who crave control and silence.”
I typed, then deleted, then finally sent:
“Business traveler. Married. Looking for something real, but private. Tonight?”
Her reply came fast.
“Hotel name. Room number. 9 PM. Shower. Wait on your knees. No underwear. No questions.”
The directness made my breath catch. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror — button-down shirt, soft stomach, crow’s feet around the eyes. Ordinary. Too ordinary. But something in her tone cut through all that. I felt like a boy again, on the edge of something forbidden.
Anticipation and Guilt
I almost canceled three times.
First, while shaving. Then again, while staring at the tiny framed hotel art above the bed. And once more when I opened my suitcase and saw the family photo my wife always packs — me and the kids at the beach, grinning. A perfect moment frozen in time.
But I didn’t cancel.
At 8:50 PM, I showered. At 9 PM sharp, I knelt by the bed. Naked. Trembling.
I heard nothing for a moment. Then the door clicked open.
Meeting Her
She stepped in without a word, closing the door with a quiet click. I kept my eyes down where I was instructed. I could see black heels. Long legs. The smell of perfume - dark and floral, like crushed violets and smoke. "Good boy," she said. Her voice was rich, low. Confident. She walked behind me, permitting silence to take over the room. The silence was deafening. Then: "What's your name?"
"David," I said too fast, too eager.
"No," she said sharply. "Not tonight."
She tied a soft black blindfold over my eyes. I felt the air shift as she walked. She didn’t touch me. Not yet. But her presence alone filled the room — sharp, commanding, magnetic.
“You came to me because you’re tired of pretending,” she said, circling slowly. “Tell me I’m right.”
“Yes...” I breathed.
“Say it.”
“You’re right.”
“Louder.”
“You’re right, Mistress.”
Control, Release, and Something More
What occurred next blurred the notion of time. She was not cruel - at least not in the way I envisioned it. She was methodical. Intentional. Each moment was planned to cause me to become vulnerable, not just physically, but also emotionally.
She used a riding crop, yes, but she also used her words, her pauses, the unbearable tension between commands.
At one point, she whispered in my ear:
“You’ve spent your whole life making decisions. Tonight, you have none.”
And I believed her.
The pain she delivered was measured, never gratuitous. A flick here, a sting there, always followed by praise when I obeyed — and just enough threat when I hesitated.
I felt humiliated, exposed... and free.
Somewhere in that hour, something shifted. I stopped thinking about my job. About dinner plans and meetings. Even about my family. For the first time in years, I was completely present.
The Guilt That Follows
When she finally let me lie on the bed, still blindfolded, my body was warm with endorphins. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a marathon.
She sat beside me for a while, one hand lightly on my stomach.
"What are you feeling?" she asked, and I hesitated.
"Relief."
"And guilt?"
I nodded, "Of course."
Her hand lingered still a moment longer, "Good. That means you're still human."
A Dominatrix in Melbourne, A Mirror to My Secrets
She left quietly, leaving nothing but the ghost of her scent and a faint throbbing pain across my thighs.
I took off the blindfold and lay looking at the ceiling. I didn’t cry, though I felt like I could have. Not from pain, but from the sheer emotional gravity of it all.
In Melbourne, in that overpriced hotel, I had become someone else. Or maybe I’d simply let the real version of me out, the one buried under ties and smiles and school drop-offs.
Why Men Like Me Do This
I’m not proud of what I did. But I’m not ashamed either.
People think men who seek out a dominatrix are twisted or broken. But that night, I realized something else: We’re just tired of always being in control.
My marriage isn’t passionless. My wife is kind. But we’re busy, tired, and caught in a cycle that leaves little room for exploration. There are things I’ll never ask her to do — not because she wouldn’t, but because I don’t even know how to say them out loud.
But a dominatrix in Melbourne? She doesn’t need explanations. She doesn’t need context. She understands control and the power of surrender. She sees what most people look away from.
Where It All Started
Would I have ever found her without that ad?
Probably not.
Locanto gave me a doorway — quiet, anonymous, judgment-free. It’s where men like me go when they’re ready to stop pretending, even if only for a night.
Her listing didn’t promise love, or fantasy, or even pleasure. It promised control. And for someone like me, that was more intoxicating than anything else.
Would I Do It Again?
The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror. There were faint red marks on my chest, a bruise on my thigh. My body ached in places I hadn’t felt in years.
I caught a 9 AM taxi to my conference, suited up, smiled at colleagues. No one knew.
Later, I texted her.
“Thank you.”
She replied with a single line:
“There’s more when you’re ready.”
I haven’t replied.
But I saved her number.
If you’re reading this, wondering what it’s like — not the fantasy, but the real thing — here’s what I’ll say:
A session with a dominatrix in Melbourne isn’t just about whips and chains. It’s about letting go. It’s about stepping outside your routine and facing the parts of yourself you’ve ignored. It’s not love. It’s not cheating — not in the traditional sense.
It’s release.
And sometimes, that’s all a man really needs.
