For guests from Hamburg: sessions in Munich, tribute by video as well
Taken literally, I am no dominatrix in Hamburg. I receive guests in Munich, at Studio 60, and nowhere else. For guests from Hamburg that changes nothing about the procedure, only about the planning:
- In the calendar you choose the format – one hour, the three-hour Intensive or a 45-minute remote session – along with the day and the time.
- WhatsApp or Telegram then opens, and the request, with price and reference, is already worded for you. The appointment only becomes binding once I confirm it personally.
- The €50 deposit holds the appointment and is credited against the fee. You book and pay for the room at Studio 60 yourself, directly with the studio.
- You hand me the balance in cash at the start of the session.
What an hour costs is set out under prices. If you would rather not make the journey south, you can reach me by video: the remote session lasts 45 minutes, costs from €180, and that is where tribute and findom have their established place in my repertoire. I speak German and English, and those are also the languages in which we correspond. What I understand by a tribute I have set down at length in the essay Tribute & Findom.
Hamburg by night: the Kiez, the bunker and the leather scene
Go out in Hamburg and sooner or later you end up in St. Pauli. Around the Reeperbahn and Spielbudenplatz, theatres, music clubs and bars stand close together, and every September the Reeperbahn Festival turns the district into a stage for four days; the next edition has been announced for 15 to 18 September 2027. On Große Freiheit stands the Große Freiheit 36, and in the cellar beneath it the Kaiserkeller, where the Beatles played in 1960, long before anyone knew who they were. The building is still a concert venue today, and a few steps further on, at the corner of the Reeperbahn, Beatles-Platz bears their name.
At the other end of the district, on the Heiligengeistfeld, looms the flak bunker built in the Second World War. On its fourth floor is the club Uebel & Gefährlich; its parties admit no one under 18, without exception. Since July 2024 a mountain path some 560 metres long has wound up the outside of the building to the planted roof of the Grüner Bunker, the Green Bunker.
Leather and fetish have a visible tradition in the city. MSC Hamburg, a club where leather and fetish men meet, holds a regular get-together; for Pride the club stages a weekend under the name KinkFusion, at which Mr. Leather Hamburg is chosen. In 2026 it ran from 30 July to 2 August in St. Pauli and St. Georg. If you are looking for dates, you will find them there and with the clubs themselves, not with me.
Hamburg has professional studios as well. I name none of them, and I link to no one. This page is for everyone who makes the journey to Munich for an encounter with me.
Thirty-seven metres above the Elbe
That evening in July I was not in Hamburg on his account but for a concert in the Grand Hall. Anyone holding a ticket may go out onto the Plaza two hours before the start, and I like to use such hours to look at a city from above before it looks at me. The escalator that everyone here simply calls the Tube carries you up through the old warehouse in two and a half minutes, 82 metres along a gentle curve. Set into its pale walls are some eight thousand sequins. As you glide past, they glint like small change someone has carelessly scattered.
At the top, on the red brick paving modelled on the warehouse below, a man stood on the outer walkway, talking on the phone in English. He spoke of day rates and loading ports, of laytime and demurrage, and he spoke with the ease of a man who knows the other side will give way in the end. Above him the façade swept up into one of its great arches, and within it the harbour lay as if in a frame: the docks and cranes across the Norderelbe, a tug pushing a hull out into the stream, the water shining in the slanting evening light.
When he rang off, he realised that I had been listening. “Do you know what this building cost?” he asked. I did. The city had originally budgeted 77 million euros; in the end the building cost around 866 million. “More than ten times as much,” he said. “And now thousands stand up here every day and find it beautiful. Nobody does the sums any more.”
“Perhaps that is precisely why it is worth so much,” I said. “Because it cost so much.”
He laughed, politely, the way one laughs at an error in someone else’s calculation. He was a shipbroker, as I learned later; he negotiated freight rates between shipowners and charterers, and in thirty years in the trade he had never let anything out of his hands without knowing what would come back. I told him about Georg Simmel, who in 1900 published a thick book about money. Value, Simmel held, does not reside in things. It is measured by what we give up in order to obtain them: labour, time, renunciation. Simmel called it sacrifice. I call it devotion.
“Devotion,” he repeated, as though I had named a currency not traded on his exchange.
Beneath our feet the Kaispeicher had once stored cocoa, tea and tobacco; the people of Hamburg called it the Kakaobunker, the cocoa bunker. I told him that I am a dominatrix, in Munich, and that I do not negotiate. He asked my price all the same. A broker always asks the price. “It is on my website,” I said. “What you actually want to know is written nowhere.” We had been speaking German, and it was the first time I had called him du, the familiar form; he noticed. His ticket for the Plaza, he told me as we parted, had cost him nothing at the entrance; the paper said the view up here would cost five euros from October. “Then come back when it costs something,” I said, “and tell me whether it has got any better.” I gave him my name and nothing more; anyone who looks will find the way to me from there. Then I went into the hall and left him alone with the harbour.
Debit and credit
His first message came four days later, and it was an offer. He proposed a framework, a term, a sum; he had even thought of a termination clause. I replied with a single sentence: there is no negotiating. For two days nothing came. Then he wrote again, shorter and without figures. He wanted to understand what I had meant on the Plaza.
We held the preliminary conversation in writing and then for half an hour on the phone, as thoroughly as I do before any tribute. I wanted to know what sum he could spare each month without another person missing it. He named an amount; I wrote it down as the upper limit, and it would apply even if he himself wanted to go beyond it. No borrowed money, no credit, nothing from an account a family lives on. He could stop at any time, without giving a reason, and nothing he told me about himself would ever be used against him. He mentioned a medication for high blood pressure that he took every day, and an old injury to his right shoulder. As his safeword he chose “Lotse”, the German word for a ship’s pilot. A pilot, he said, is the man whose word even a captain heeds on the Elbe. To check in along the way, we agreed on the colours: green for carry on, yellow for slow down, and a hand signal in case words failed him.
Then he received his protocol. He was to buy an account book, a paper one, with two columns headed Soll and Haben, debit and credit, the way they were once kept in the counting houses of Hamburg. A bookkeeper fills the two sides according to his rules; I gave them mine. He was allowed to write only under debit: what he had given in the course of the week without getting anything back. Under credit, where for thirty years he had entered what was owed to him, nothing was to stand. Every Sunday at nine in the evening he read the week out to me, by video, for forty-five minutes. Once a month a tribute arrived by the route I had named, within the limit and without a word attached. I never mentioned it.
The first week was empty. He held the book up to the camera like a piece of evidence. “I have given nothing,” he said, “because everything I have is already owed to someone.” I let the sentence hang in the air until he himself could no longer bear it, and ended the session ten minutes early. The second week had three lines.
Demurrage
In the third week he tried money. The tribute came earlier than agreed, higher than the month before, just under the limit, and this time with a sentence attached: in return he would like to be allowed to come to Munich sooner. I sent the amount back to him the same day and cancelled the following Sunday. A tribute with a condition is an invoice, and I write my invoices myself.
Later he explained to me what demurrage is. If a ship lies at the quay longer than agreed, the charterer pays for every day of waiting; in his world even waiting has a day rate. For two weeks I left him lying at the quay. No reply, no appointment, only the book, which he was to keep up. He wrote things in it that had nothing to do with me: that he had let a young colleague have a deal without mentioning his own part in it; that in a quarrel with his brother he had been the first to give way. And one line that told me more about him than all the others: Waited. Did not do the sums.
When I saw him again, on the screen, he looked wearier and calmer. He did not ask why. He asked whether he might come to Munich, and this time nothing hung on the question. I pointed him to the calendar. He chose an afternoon and the three-hour format, and because at Studio 60 the guest books and pays for the room himself, he sent me the screenshot of his booking, without comment. It was, he wrote weeks afterwards, the first bill of his working life that he had settled without asking for a discount.
The uncounted envelope
He came by ICE, a little under six hours from Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, and he came sober and to the minute. He laid the balance of the fee on the table in cash at the start, as is proper. Beside it he placed an envelope that was no part of the fee: this month’s tribute, in cash, as I had decided for that day, and within the limit he had drawn himself. He had not told me the sum, and I had not asked. Then, as I had instructed him, he knelt one step away from the table, on the cushion I had laid out for him. I left him there until his shoulders stopped turning towards the envelope.
I fastened leather cuffs around his wrists and checked with two fingers that there was still room beneath the leather. Because of the shoulder I did not bind his hands behind his back, nor did I draw his arms upwards; I only joined his wrists, in front of his body, loosely enough for the shoulder to lie at rest. “Your word?” “Lotse.” “And if you cannot speak?” He opened and closed his right hand three times, the signal we had agreed on the phone.
I sat down opposite him and opened the account book. Seven weeks in a tight, clean merchant’s hand. I read every line aloud to him and after each one asked the same question: “What did you get for it?” The first few times he answered obediently: “Nothing.” Then he began to negotiate without noticing. He had got peace for it, he said. A clear conscience. His colleague’s respect. “Those are counter-entries,” I said. “Strike them out.” He had to strike out every counter-entry in his head, one after another, and I could see in his face how much strength it costs a merchant to leave a column empty.
Then I took the envelope. He raised his eyes, for the first time without permission, because he wanted to watch me count. I did not count. I did not open it. I put it into my bag just as it was and closed the bag. “But you don’t even know how much …” he began, slipping back into the formal Sie as into an old habit. “Exactly,” I said.
After that I said nothing more. I sat in front of him, he on his knees, and I simply looked at him: no command, no praise, no slight. A minute is long when no one fills it. After the third his breathing grew uneven, after the fifth he went still, and at some point I stopped measuring the time, and so did he. When I asked, “Where are you?”, he needed a moment to find a colour. “Green,” he said, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than usual.
What Simmel knew about sacrifice
Simmel wrote a sentence that I like to read aloud to men like him: “Sacrifice by no means belongs in the category of what ought not to be, as superficiality and greed would have us believe.” A merchant learns the opposite. To him every sacrifice is an item to be kept small, and every act of giving merely the first half of a deal. For seven weeks he had written in the column that German bookkeepers head Soll, without suspecting that Simmel had long since explained the word to him: Soll is also what ought to be, and sacrifice belongs to what ought to be.
Simmel calls money “the purest form of the tool”. Because it serves every purpose, it turns for most people, as he describes it, from the absolute means into the absolute end. That is exactly where my shipbroker had lived for thirty years: in a means that had become an end, in rates, margins and day rates that explained everything to him except what it was all for. Tribute reverses that movement. It makes money a means again, though not for a commodity but for a relationship between two people that can never be settled. Unopened, the envelope held no amount for me, and precisely for that reason it took on a weight for him that could no longer be converted into anything.
My power in that room did not lie in taking his money. I could have refused it at any time, and once I did. It lay in denying him the counter-entry: the thank-you, the receipt, the praise with which he would have turned his giving back into an exchange. And his freedom did not lie in an absence of limits. He had drawn the upper limit himself, and with a single word he could have ended everything. Within those lines, though, he was allowed to do what he had never managed outside: to give without keeping accounts of what comes back.
Simmel knows the counterpart too. There are exchanges, he writes, in which simply being “allowed to give” one’s own contribution is “already a gain in itself”: love for love, the conversation in which no one grows poorer. Economic exchange he expressly excludes; there, every gift means the sacrifice of a good that could also have been put to some other use. Tribute stands exactly on that border. It is money, and so a good that is missed once it is gone, and it is given like a glance or a word. When I unfastened the cuffs, felt along his wrists and gave him water, he said something similar, only in the language of his harbour. He had always thought he was carrying cargo. Now it felt as though he had thrown ballast overboard.
Five euros for the view
What we did with the rest of the time does not belong in this story. At the end he sat on the chair where I had sat, a blanket around his shoulders, slowly drinking his water. I did not tell him what was in the envelope, because I did not know myself, and I did not open it that evening either. The next morning he took the train back north.
Weeks later, at the beginning of October, a message came from Hamburg. He had been up on the Plaza again, on a clear evening in the first week it charged for admission. The ticket had cost five euros; he had paid without looking at the receipt and ridden the Tube up past the sequins. He had stood at the same arch as before, above the brick, beneath the curved glass that mirrors the sky. The tugs, he wrote, had been turning ships just as in summer, and the view had not got any better. Only, for the first time, he had not worked out whether it was worth it.
With it came a photo from the account book, the last page with writing on it. Under debit, in his tight hand: Plaza. Five euros. Under credit, nothing. I did not reply; he no longer expected me to. When I think of Hamburg today, I see neither the Reeperbahn nor the Michel, but a man in the evening light at the edge above the Elbe who has paid for a view and does not want to know what he gets for it.
Two voices from the guestbook
The two entries below are genuine; they appear word for word, in German, in my guestbook and are faithfully translated here. They were written by guests, not by the characters in the story, and they have nothing to do with the shipbroker, even though the second entry, as noted there, comes from Hamburg.
“I am not one of those men who give their money away easily. In my profession I negotiate every day over sums beside which my tributes to the Mistress look small. And yet giving is different here. It is not loss. It is relief. I do not entirely understand it myself. But the bond holds, and the giving is part of it.” — T., lawyer, 51, guestbook entry (translated from German)
“She did not insult me. She did not humiliate me. She looked at me while I knelt, and said nothing. That was all. It was also all I needed.” — guest from Hamburg, guestbook entry (translated from German)
Two motifs of the story come from these entries: a man who negotiates for a living, and the silence above someone who kneels. The words themselves belong to the two guests, not to the shipbroker.
Tribute and findom in a real session
The story condenses what in reality happens more slowly. Tribute and findom belong to my repertoire for remote sessions; whether and how a tribute also plays a part in an encounter at Studio 60 is something we settle in the preliminary conversation. A tribute is never part of the fee and is never expected. The fee itself is fixed, €250 per hour and €300 for hours beginning from 8 pm, plus the room fee paid to Studio 60, and it is not negotiated.
Before the first tribute come questions I take seriously:
- Limit. You name a sum you can spare without another person missing it. It remains the upper limit, even if you later want to give more.
- Source. No borrowed money, no credit, nothing a family lives on.
- Exit. You can stop at any time, without giving a reason. Nothing you confide in me will ever be used as leverage; discretion applies on both sides.
- Safeword. It applies in a session just as it does on a video call, and it ends any action at once. We also agree on a sign without words, in case language fails you.
- Health. Heart and circulation, medication, old injuries: you tell me beforehand, ideally in your profile in the Safe Room.
Interrogation, humiliation and restraint, as they appear in the story, are included in the hourly fee. No intercourse, no oral sex. How limits and stopping are handled with me is set out under taboos, limits and safety; why the giving itself is the submission, in the essay on tribute and findom.
From Hamburg to Studio 60: travel and planning
The ICE runs from Hamburg Hauptbahnhof to Munich Hauptbahnhof without a change, several times a day; the fastest connections take a little under six hours, others considerably longer. If you fly, you are in the air for just over an hour, but you have to allow for the journeys to and from both airports; from Munich airport the S-Bahn brings you into the city in around 40 to 45 minutes. You receive the studio’s exact address after my confirmation and your deposit.
What I advise guests from the Elbe:
- Ask early. If you are travelling six hours, you do not choose your appointment the same morning. An afternoon, or the three-hour Intensive format, repays the distance better than a tight single hour.
- Build in a buffer. A delay does not lengthen the session, and if you arrive 30 minutes or more late without a message, you count as a no-show. Better to take an earlier train.
- Arrive sober. The beer in the bistro car stays where it is; if you have been drinking, you will not be received.
- Book the room. You book and pay for the room at Studio 60 yourself and send me the screenshot of the booking.
- Stay discreet. What happens between us stays between us, on both sides.
If you stay the night in Munich, you come to the studio from your hotel. From Kiel and Bremen the journey is similarly long; you will find separate stories for both cities under dominatrix Kiel and dominatrix Bremen.