Dominatrix Bremen: a session in Munich, a request from the north
If you search for a dominatrix in Bremen and find your way to me, you should know one thing at once: I do not come to the Weser. My sessions take place in Munich, at Studio 60, and nowhere else; alongside them there are remote sessions by video. The distance is less an obstacle than a filter. Whoever travels down from Bremen has made his decision before he boards the train.
Here is how to get an appointment:
- In the calendar you choose the type – one hour, Intensive (three hours) or remote (45 minutes) – and then the day and the time.
- After that you land in WhatsApp or Telegram, where your request is already written out, price and reference included.
- I confirm personally. The €50 deposit then secures the appointment and counts towards the fee.
- You book and pay for the room at Studio 60 yourself, directly with the studio, and send me the confirmation as a screenshot.
What an hour costs and how the evening rate is calculated is set out under prices and booking; how the studio works and what you book there, under Studio 60. If the journey is too far for you, there is still the remote session: worldwide, 45 minutes, from €180. I speak and write German and English. How I handle limits and the safeword – the true subject of this story – I explain under limits and safety.
Bremen nights: the Viertel, the Schlachte and the quiet scene
Bremen at night does not sprawl; it goes deep – into cellars, down to the water, into a handful of streets everyone knows.
- The Viertel. Ostertor and Steintor lie a few minutes’ walk from the old town, with pubs, bars and small cafés, and a crowd that does not dress up to go out.
- Lila Eule. A cellar club on Bernhardstraße in the Viertel since 1965, a meeting place of the extra-parliamentary opposition at the end of the sixties, today a small stage for concerts and club nights.
- The Schlachte. The promenade along the Weser, with bars, restaurants and beer gardens; in summer people sit there by the river until late.
- Lagerhaus and Schlachthof. The Lagerhaus cultural centre on Schildstraße, also in the Viertel, brings concerts to the city; the Schlachthof cultural centre on the edge of the Bürgerweide in Findorff fills its Kesselhalle and Magazinkeller with concerts, readings and theatre.
- Festivals. In July the Breminale brings five days of music to the Osterdeich, traditionally free of charge. In October the Freimarkt moves onto the Bürgerweide, a fair with almost a thousand years of history. In August, CSD – Bremen’s Pride – marches through the city centre as a demonstration.
The BDSM scene in Bremen is smaller and quieter. As in most large cities, newcomers find their way in through munches, where people meet in everyday clothes and, before anything else, talk. There are studios in Bremen and the surrounding area as well; they have nothing to do with me, and I name none of them here. For larger fetish parties many look towards Hamburg. What I have to say about the nights there is under dominatrix Hamburg; a story from Lower Saxony is under dominatrix Hanover.
Beneath the ornate casks of the Ratskeller
It was a Friday at the beginning of September, and I had come to Bremen not for a man but for a cellar. Wine has been served beneath the town hall since 1405. You go down a few steps and leave the market square up above: the gables, the two towers of the cathedral, the stone Roland with his drawn sword. Down there it grows still, with that dense stillness only old vaults know. The Great Hall rests on twenty pillars. Along its north side lie four ornate casks from the eighteenth century, covered in carving, as though someone had built altars to patience. Opposite them are the Priölken, wood-panelled booths from the year 1599, in which merchants are said to have talked business with captains home from the sea, without the next table overhearing.
I sat in front of one of the casks, a glass of Riesling before me. Only German wines are poured down there, some six hundred and fifty of them, on a list as thick as a commentary on the Commercial Code. At the next table a man was reading through papers. Grey suit, open collar, a red pen that he held the way a surgeon holds his instruments. He struck out, wrote above the line, struck out again. After a while I recognised the pattern. Wherever it said ‘undertakes to’, he made it ‘is entitled to’. ‘Without delay’ became ‘where possible’.
‘You’re taking people’s chains off,’ I said.
He looked up, not startled so much as caught out. ‘I build in back doors. That’s what I’m paid for.’ In-house counsel to a trading house on the Weser: contracts with shipping lines, suppliers, insurers. ‘Nobody should feel bound. Then everybody signs.’
‘And you? What are you bound to?’
He smiled and quoted, as if he kept the sentence in his breast pocket for evenings like this one: ‘Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.’ Rousseau, the opening of the first chapter of The Social Contract, 1762. I knew it. I also knew the sentence that comes seven chapters later and is quoted less often, because it is less comfortable: obedience to a law which we prescribe to ourselves is liberty.
‘A law you give yourself,’ he said, ‘is a contract with yourself. You can terminate it whenever you like.’
‘Then it wasn’t one.’
He put the pen down. Only then did I take him seriously. We talked for an hour, about clauses, about wine, about why people sign anything at all. When he wanted to know what I do for a living, I told him plainly. He did not flinch. He asked the way a lawyer asks: ‘Is there a contract involved?’ – ‘There are agreements. Limits, health, a word that ends everything. Anyone who wishes can write them down.’ – ‘And you sign every one?’ – ‘I don’t count how many I have signed. I count the drafts I have sent back.’
I paid for my wine and wrote on the back of one of his sheets where he could reach me. Beneath it, dropping the formal Sie for the first time: ‘Write down what you want to be bound to. Without reservation.’
Outside, the market square lay in the last of the light. The Roland, just under five and a half metres of stone, has stood there since 1404, holding before his chest the shield with the imperial eagle. On it, in Middle Low German: ‘vryheit do ik ju openbar’ – freedom I make manifest to you. His knees are stained dark by all the hands that have touched them. Whoever rubs the knee, so they say, will come back to Bremen. I left it alone. I have never minded others coming back.
Eleven pages, one clause and eighteen days of silence
His first draft arrived after four days. Eleven pages, sections with subsections and numbered points, definitions at the front, a severability clause at the back. It was, in its way, a love letter to the back door: subject to, without prejudice to, insofar as reasonable. Every sentence left him a way out. I sent it back, struck through in my own hand, all but one clause. That one I moved to the top, as clause one: You can leave at any time. You choose the word for it.
He chose ‘Weser’. Short, unambiguous, a word nobody would otherwise say in a scene, and a river that links his city with the open sea. I liked that it was a way out that also led home.
The second draft was shorter and more honest. He named his limits without justifying them: no marks reaching beyond what a shirt collar or shirt cuff would cover; no restraint of the arms above the head, because his right shoulder had not been the same since his rowing years on the Weser; no blindfold the first time. He wrote that he took medication for high blood pressure every morning. I made a note of it and asked how he reacted to lying still for a long time, whether he grew dizzy when he stood up. He answered precisely, the way lawyers answer once they have grasped that imprecision has a price.
What I promised him in return fitted into three lines. I decide the order, the duration and the silence. I check his hands and feet without his having to ask. Clause one holds every minute. His duty fitted into a single line, clause four: he reports any tingling, any numbness, any dizziness, at once and without being asked. We agreed on three hours in Munich, on an afternoon in November.
Nine days later one sentence arrived: ‘I withdraw from the draft.’ No reason given. A lawyer knows that reasons can be contested. I could have reminded him how long he had laboured over his limits, how carefully he had answered every question. I wrote back: ‘Clause one.’ Nothing more. A pact you cannot walk out of is not a pact but a trap.
Then, for eighteen days, nothing.
On the evening the Freimarkt opened, a message came. Bremen calls those weeks its fifth season; the fair’s market rights go back to the eleventh century. On the Bürgerweide the rides were turning, the opening fireworks hung above the rooftops, and everywhere people were calling ‘Ischa Freimaak’ to one another – Bremen’s way of saying that it is Freimarkt, after all. He wrote: ‘Freimarkt. Free market. All my life I have made sure that everything stays negotiable. I am tired of it.’ Attached was the second draft, unchanged, signed, with date and place: Bremen.
We never spoke of the eighteen days. I sent him confirmation of the appointment. The time he had been gone belonged to the contract; it proved that clause one was no mere ornament.
Leather, straps and clause one at Studio 60
He took one of the first trains to leave Bremen in the morning, changed once and was in Munich just under six hours later. He had sent me the screenshot of his room booking at Studio 60 the day before, as agreed. He was at the door twelve minutes early and waited outside until it was time. Sober, freshly shaved, an envelope with the pact in his inside pocket.
We read it together, at the table, before anything else happened. I had him read clause one aloud and asked for his word. ‘Weser.’ I asked whether he had taken his medication that day, whether he had eaten, how the shoulder felt. Then I laid on the table what the pact provided for: two pairs of leather cuffs, padded on the inside, for wrists and ankles; three broad straps with buckles; and a pair of safety shears, which I showed him before I touched anything else. ‘These stay here for as long as you are lying down.’
He took off his jacket, his watch and his shoes. The pact asked for no more. I had him lie on his back on the bench, arms at his sides, as his shoulder required. Then I began, and I took my time. The first cuff around the left wrist, the buckle set so that two fingers fitted between leather and skin. The click of the karabiner. The second. The ankles. Then the straps, across chest, hips and thighs, each drawn tight in turn. I put them on him like signatures, one after another, each with a sound he heard before he felt it.
Then I sat down on the chair beside him and said nothing. Ten minutes, perhaps more. In a bound body, silence is louder than anywhere else. You hear your own breathing, the leather creaking at every small movement, and you listen to your own mind as it searches for a way out. His went the way it always went. ‘I would suggest,’ he began, ‘that we –’
‘There are no suggestions here,’ I said. ‘There is clause one. Do you want it?’
Nothing for a long time. Then: ‘No.’
I drew the strap across his chest one hole tighter, not hard, just enough to be felt. ‘Then you are bound now. Not by me. By your signature.’
Every few minutes I asked: ‘Hands?’ He moved his fingers and answered: ‘Warm.’ That was how we had agreed it. The fifth or sixth time, he hesitated. ‘My left hand’s tingling.’ I opened the cuff at once, rubbed the wrist until the colour came back and closed it one hole looser. ‘You almost kept that from me.’ – ‘Yes.’ – ‘Then you would have broken the contract. Clause four: you report any tingling.’ He closed his eyes, and for the first time I saw him smile without an argument behind it.
I had saved the decisive moment for the second hour. I opened the cuff on his right wrist completely, took his hand and laid it on his chest, free. ‘This hand belongs to you. You can keep it. Or you can give it back to me.’
I waited. A man who had spent his life building back doors lay in front of an open one. The hand rested there a long time, so long that I could hear his watch ticking where he had left it on the table. Then he lifted it, slowly, and laid it back in the open leather himself. I closed the buckle. There were other positions that afternoon, other straps, long stretches of silence. But that was the moment it had all been about.
What Rousseau knew about chains
Rousseau opens the first chapter of his Social Contract with the chains, and most readers stop there. They take the sentence as a lament: we would be free, if only we were allowed to be. My lawyer from the Ratskeller had used it that way for twenty years, as the justification for every back door. No one can put chains on a man who promises nothing. That is true. But it is just as true that such a man never arrives anywhere. Every sentence he writes has an exit, and so he never stands wholly inside any of them.
In one of his emails, between the first and the second draft, he had quoted Rousseau back at me: to renounce liberty is to renounce being a man. He meant it as an objection. I replied that he was renouncing nothing. He was lending his freedom, for three hours, in a room he had booked himself, and keeping a word with which he could call it back at any moment. A renunciation has no way back. A pact has one, right at the start, in clause one. In the same chapter Rousseau himself calls it an empty and contradictory convention that sets up absolute authority on the one side and unlimited obedience on the other. He is right. That is why my pact states first what I may not do: hold on to him when he wants to go.
There is a passage in Rousseau I would never write into a pact: whoever refuses to obey the general will shall be compelled to do so, which means nothing less than that he will be forced to be free. Here the philosopher and I part company. With me, nobody is forced to be free. He comes because he wants to, and he goes when he says the word. It is precisely this possibility that makes the restraint bearable; more than that, it gives it meaning. A bond that cannot be undone is mere force. One that could be undone and is not is a decision, taken afresh every minute.
He had understood that when he laid the free hand back into the leather. Obedience to a law he had prescribed to himself. Nobody had held him there, not even I. What held him was his signature, and it was his own.
Bremen has known this logic for centuries. On the Roland’s shield the city proclaims its freedom, and the drawn sword stands for the city’s jurisdiction, not for a knight’s rank. Some of the charters by which Bremen appealed to emperors and kings were forgeries; historians have known that for a long time. The liberties held all the same, because the city lived them and defended them. A freedom nobody stands up for is just a piece of paper. They say Bremen will stay free as long as the Roland stands. I believe he stands as long as someone is willing to stand up for what is written on his shield.
The Roland’s dark knee
I undid the restraints in reverse order, slowly, just as I had put them on. First the straps, then the ankles, the hands last of all. The leather had left red lines on his wrists, already fading as I traced them with my thumb. I had him sit first rather than stand straight away, gave him water, put a blanket round his shoulders and waited until his gaze had come back into the room. We said little. He did not ask whether he had been good. He asked whether he might take the pact with him.
I picked it up from the table and wrote on the last page, beneath his signature, a number and my initial. He looked at it, and I saw that he wanted to ask what it counted. He did not ask. That was how I knew this draft had been worth not sending back.
The next morning he was on the train north again. Weeks later a message came from Bremen, not a word in it about the session. He wrote that for the first time he had drawn up a contract that stated what someone must do, without reservation, without ‘where possible’. The other side had signed, and both parties were content. On his way home, he wrote, he had stood in the market square, in the drizzle, in front of the Roland. The knee was dark from all the hands before his. He had rubbed it.
I had to laugh when I read that. A man who lives in Bremen has no need to rub the knee to come back. He does it for another reason. I think he wanted to go back to the moment when a hand lay free on his chest and he gave it away. A person can be born free and still choose the chain for himself. Then it is no longer a chain but a promise. On the Roland’s shield, in a language hardly anyone speaks any more, it says: freedom I make manifest to you. It is not made manifest where nothing binds. It becomes manifest in the moment when someone sees the open buckle and stays.
Two voices from the guestbook
The people in the story are invented. The two entries below are not: they appear word for word, in German, in my guestbook, written by men who have nothing to do with the lawyer from the Ratskeller, and are faithfully translated here.
‘After six weeks I wanted out. It was too much. She did not persuade me to stay. She told me I could go if I needed to. I went. Three weeks later I came back. She took me back without saying a word about it. That was lesson enough.’ — Slave M., guestbook entry (translated from German)
‘I got my number from the Mistress. She does not count my sessions. She counts the men she has given up on. I was the 47th who was allowed to. Today I write that with pride.’ — Slave 47, guestbook entry (translated from German)
Anyone who has read the story will recognise something of it in both: the right to leave, and the weight of a number. Nothing more connects these voices with the story, and nothing more is meant to.
Cuffs, straps and agreements in a real session
The story condenses what takes time and care in a real session in Munich. Restraint with wrist and ankle cuffs, straps or rope is included in the hourly fee, even in the restrictive form that leaves hardly any room to move. Mummification and inflatable bags need at least 90 minutes. My approach is set out under bondage and mummification.
Before the first buckle comes the conversation:
- Limits. You name what is not to happen, without having to give reasons, and I keep to it.
- Health. Circulation, blood pressure, medication, joints and old injuries belong on the table beforehand, ideally already in your profile in the Safe Room. A shoulder that must not go above the head decides the position, not my wish.
- Safeword. We agree on it before we begin. The moment it is spoken, everything stops and I open the restraints.
- While you are restrained, I check your hands and feet regularly, never leave you alone for a moment and keep shears within reach.
You do not need a signed pact like the one in the story. What is binding is the preliminary conversation, together with the consent declaration you confirm before every request. No intercourse, no oral sex. Everything else that applies, including the list of my taboos, you will find under limits and safety.
From Bremen to Studio 60: travel and planning
By ICE from Bremen Hauptbahnhof the journey takes around five and a half to six hours with one change; trains that run through without a change take considerably longer. It is quicker by direct flight from Bremen, a little over an hour in the air, plus the journey from Munich airport into the city. You will receive the studio’s exact address once I have confirmed and the deposit has been paid.
For planning, the rules of any long journey apply, only more strictly:
- Ask early. Short-notice appointments are possible, but from Bremen you would do better to request a date a few days ahead and a starting time that leaves room for delays. If you are 30 minutes or more late without sending word, the appointment counts as a no-show.
- Book the room. You reserve and pay for the room at Studio 60 directly with the studio; send me the screenshot of the booking in advance.
- Arrive sober. The beer from the onboard bistro stays where it is. Anyone who has been drinking will not be received.
- Allow time. One hour in the early afternoon can be managed in a single day, with an early train down and a late one back. For three hours, a night in Munich is worth it, so that you are not rushing from the studio straight to the last train.
Discretion applies on both sides. Your request contains a reference, not a life story. Recordings only with prior consent; smartphones stay off. What you say in Bremen, and to whom, is yours alone to decide.