Dominatrix Mainz: the way leads to Munich
If you are looking for a dominatrix in Mainz and have landed on this page, you get a clear answer from me: in person I receive guests only in Munich, at Studio 60. In Mainz itself I cannot be booked, neither in the old town nor anywhere else on the Rhine. What there is, is a way south – and a connection that can begin long before the first train journey: by video, by task, in writing.
This is how you go about it as a guest from Mainz:
- Under choose a date you pick the type – one hour, the three-hour Intensive or 45 minutes of Remote – along with the day and the time.
- For exactly that time you reserve and pay for the room at Studio 60 in advance, directly with the studio; you send me the screenshot of the booking along with your request.
- One click takes you to WhatsApp or Telegram, where the message to me is already written, price and reference included. I reply and confirm personally; until then nothing is fixed. The deposit of €50 secures the appointment and counts towards the fee.
The fee is €250 per hour, €300 from 8 pm, plus the room fee for Studio 60; everything else is set out under prices. If you do not want to make the journey yet, begin with the remote session: 45 minutes of video, worldwide, from €180. I speak and write German or English.
The story further down is about remote control: about instructions that arrive in writing, and about a man who has to learn to follow them instead of improving them. Guests from the other bank of the Rhine will find their own story under dominatrix Wiesbaden.
Mainz by night: Kirschgarten, KUZ and the fifth season
Mainz measures its celebrations in wine and in seasons. A good part of the evening plays out in wine taverns, and once a year the ‘fifth season’, as carnival is called here, takes over the whole city. What you should know:
- Kirschgarten and Augustinerstraße: The small square in the old town, with its half-timbered houses and the Marienbrunnen of 1932, is the quieter start to an evening; next door, in Augustinerstraße, it gets fuller and louder. In the old wine taverns, locals and visitors sit at the same tables.
- KUZ by the Rhine: The Kulturzentrum has existed since 1981. Its home is a red-brick building dating from 1888, once the garrison’s laundry, near the Winterhafen and the riverbank. Since the renovation that ended in 2018 it has staged its programme in the Werkhalle and the Lehrsaal, and in summer in the garden as well; on the bill are concerts, parties, cabaret and a night-time flea market.
- Kulturclub schon schön: In the Große Bleiche since 2010 – concerts, parties, a bar and a café. Mondays alternate between a jam session and jazz, Tuesdays bring a live concert, both on a pay-what-you-like basis; from Wednesday to Saturday the parties begin at 11 pm.
- Fastnacht: Since 1982 the new carnival season has been opened on 11 November at 11:11 am from the balcony of the Osteiner Hof on Schillerplatz, with the eleven paragraphs of the Fools’ Basic Law. By the estimate of the Mainzer Carneval-Verein, half a million people or more come to the Rose Monday parade every year. The carnival fountain on the same square, eight and a half metres high and unveiled in 1967, bears more than two hundred bronze figures.
- The Saturday morning after: The Mainz winegrowers’ market breakfast, the Marktfrühstück, has run since 1999, on Saturdays from 9 am to 3 pm, in the 2026 season from 7 March to 31 October – because of the building site on Liebfrauenplatz, this time spread over three squares, with a different wine estate on each.
I write nothing here about a fetish scene in Mainz that I cannot verify for myself. If you want to meet like-minded people, look across the whole Rhine-Main area; such meetings mostly happen at Stammtische, regular informal get-togethers announced on the relevant platforms. There are professional dominatrix studios in the region too; I do not name other houses. Anyone who deliberately wants distance between everyday life and a session will travel further than across the Rhine in any case.
Weck, Worscht un Woi beside the Gutenberg monument
I was in Mainz that Saturday in October not for a person but for a book. The Gutenberg Museum has vacated its building on Liebfrauenplatz, and the Schellbau has been pulled down; until further notice the Bibles are kept in temporary quarters in the Natural History Museum, in the former refectory of the Poor Clares, inside a black cube that seems to float above the floor. Forty-two lines to a column, set in type that someone had cast letter by letter – each one reversed, so that it would stand the right way round on the paper.
Because there is building work on Liebfrauenplatz, the Mainz winegrowers’ market breakfast is spread this year over three squares: Fischtorplatz by the Rhine, Schillerplatz around the carnival fountain, and Tritonplatz between Gutenbergplatz and the Staatstheater. I went to Tritonplatz. Weck, Worscht un Woi – roll, sausage and wine – and in October Federweißer, the cloudy new wine, and onion tart as well. I took a glass and stood at one of the standing tables, within sight of the bronze Gutenberg on the neighbouring square, designed by Thorvaldsen and unveiled in 1837 – an idealised face, for no portrait from his own time exists.
At the same table stood a man who was not drinking wine. Before him lay galley proofs; in his hand he held a red pen, and beside his roll stood a glass of water. He struck out one comma and put in another.
‘Correcting proofs on a Saturday,’ I said.
‘I’m always correcting. I’m an editor. I spend my life inside other people’s sentences.’
I shall call him M. Late forties, his tie a shade too neat for a Saturday. He knew more about Gutenberg than I did, and he liked knowing it. Then he quoted Wittgenstein, as though he had kept the sentence in reserve for occasions such as this: ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’
‘And whose sentences do you obey?’ I asked, slipping from the polite Sie to the familiar du without asking his leave.
The red pen stopped in mid-air. ‘None. I improve them.’
‘Then your world reaches exactly as far as the edge of other people’s mistakes.’
He did not laugh. He asked what I did for a living, and I told him in one sentence. He laid the pen crosswise over the proofs, as if to cordon something off. I gave him the name under which he would find me. ‘If you write to me, write a sentence you have not improved.’ Then I walked past the Gutenberg monument towards the cathedral and did not look round.
Three drafts and a fountain pen
His first message came on Sunday evening. It was flawless, and that was exactly how I could tell that he had not written it but edited it. Three drafts, he admitted, when I asked.
I replied with an instruction: from now on you write to me by hand, with a fountain pen, no ink eradicator, no crossing out. You photograph the page and send it as it is. And you correct nothing that comes from me.
Then the preliminary conversation, first in writing, then on the telephone. Blood pressure fine, no medication, but an inflamed tendon sheath in his right wrist; so I limited the writing to fifteen minutes at a time. His limits: nothing that would endanger his work, no task a colleague might read over his shoulder, no marks above the collar. The cane, should we ever arrive in Munich: yes – counted, and no more than twelve strokes the first time.
As his safeword he chose ‘Fischtor’, after the square by the Rhine that he crosses every morning on his way to the publishing house. It ends everything, at once, even in the middle of a video call, even if I have just forbidden him to speak. For moments in which he must stay silent we agreed on a sign: the flat of his hand on the table, twice.
The rules fitted on one page. At half past seven, one sentence on how he had slept. At ten at night, one sentence on what he had obeyed. My answers come when I wish, or not at all.
On the fourth day I wrote: ‘Tomorrow at half past seven you send me a sentence about you’re hands.’ The mistake was deliberate. He sent a sentence about his hands, on the dot – and underneath, small, in pencil: your. I was silent all day. In the evening I wrote: you will copy out my instruction from yesterday twenty times, exactly as it stands. On the page he sent, his handwriting trembled for the first time. At the eleventh you’re hands, he wrote later, he had stopped seeing the mistake and begun to hear me.
At my end, the sentence stands the right way round
I set the video sessions for Thursdays, nine in the evening, forty-five minutes. He knelt in his flat in the Neustadt in front of his desk, the laptop on a pile of dictionaries, the camera at eye level. Before him lay the fountain pen and a writing pad, nothing else.
I dictated; he wrote and held the page up to the camera. In the small window in which he saw himself, his writing appeared reversed; most programs show you your own image mirrored. At my end it arrived the right way round. ‘You see your sentence the wrong way round. I see it the right way. Get used to who you’re writing for.’
Sometimes I said nothing for minutes, and he held the page up until his arm grew heavy. In the second session I saw him shake out his right hand. I asked where he stood, on a scale of one to ten. Six, he said; the tendon was pulling. I had him put the pen down until the time was up. A man who has learnt to keep quiet about pain in order to meet a deadline must, with me, first learn to tell the truth.
On the Friday before the last Saturday in October, an envelope with a Munich postmark lay in his letterbox, and inside it five smaller ones, each marked with a time. None was to be opened before its hour. At nine: the grey jacket, no tie. At ten: to Fischtorplatz, not a word with anyone except the winegrower, and with him only the order. At eleven: a Weck, eaten standing, looking out at the Fischtor fountain, where fish leap over stone spheres and which the people of Mainz call ‘Quellmänner un Hering’ – potatoes boiled in their skins, and herring. At twelve: twenty minutes along the riverbank. On the hour, every hour, one sentence to me. At one, the last envelope: Go home. Write nothing more today.
At ten that night nothing came. He had obeyed. In the morning he wrote that he had stood at the fountain among a crowd of people raising their glasses and, for the first time in years, had not corrected a single wine list or sign in his head. He had simply read what was there. I replied with one word: Good.
Mirror writing at Studio 60
He came to Munich on a Wednesday at the beginning of November, a good four hours by train with one change, sober and half an hour early. He had booked the room at Studio 60 himself; the screenshot had long since reached me. I let him wait until one.
In the middle of the room stood a table and a chair, and on the table his fountain pen, paper and a hand mirror. I asked about the tendon, about his blood pressure, about the word. ‘Fischtor,’ he said, and I confirmed it: spoken once, and everything is over. Then I buckled a leather cuff around his left wrist and hooked it to the armrest. Two fingers fitted between leather and skin; I checked it before his eyes. After every quarter of an hour he would lay down the pen and rest his hand, as we had done since the preliminary conversation.
‘You will write what I say. In mirror writing, like Gutenberg’s type. I shall be the one to read it, not you.’
For a man who has checked every word for twenty-five years, mirror writing is a kind of blindness: the hand no longer knows what the eye is checking. I had told him the rule before the first word, and he had said yes: every stroke through his own writing costs one stroke of the cane, due at the end of the sheet; twelve is the limit. At the third word he crossed out a letter. I said only the number. ‘One.’ With every number after that, his breathing grew shallower.
By the end of the first sheet there were five. I undid the cuff and had him stand and brace himself on the table with both hands. He counted aloud; I counted with him. At ‘one’ he sounded like a man entering a figure in a ledger; at ‘five’ he no longer did. I checked his skin and asked where he was. ‘Seven. The hand is fine. The head isn’t.’ That was honest, and I told him so. I gave him water and as much time as he needed until he said ‘five’ of his own accord. Only then did he sit down again.
He was not crossing out because he made mistakes, but because he could not bear not knowing whether he was making any. So I changed the dictation. On the second sheet I gave him a sentence with a glaring error, one he would have marked in any manuscript. At that point the nib stopped. One second, two, three; in the room only his breathing and the ticking of the radiator. Then he wrote on. He wrote my mistake and did not cross it out.
I held the sheet up to the mirror and read it aloud, mistake and all. He lowered his head. For the first time that afternoon he was no longer working against me.
Following the rule does not mean reading it
In the third hour I dictated to him the sentence with which he had introduced himself on Tritonplatz. He wrote it in reverse without lifting the pen, and when I held up the mirror for him, he read it himself for the first time that day – the right way round, in my hand.
Wittgenstein wrote that sentence as a young man, in the Tractatus. Later, in the Philosophical Investigations, he pursued a question that is dangerous for an editor: what does it mean to follow a rule? ‘Hence “following the rule” is a practice. And believing one is following the rule is not following the rule.’ All his life M. had believed he was following rules. In truth he had administered them: read every instruction, interpreted it, improved it, and in the end decided for himself what held. A man who reads like that never obeys. He edits.
One section earlier Wittgenstein writes that there is a way of grasping a rule which is not an interpretation, and a little later comes the sentence I like best: ‘When I follow the rule, I do not choose. I follow the rule blindly.’ By this he meant not obedience but the matter-of-course sureness of a practice long rehearsed. In the studio I read him my own way all the same: as the description of a man who no longer checks his mirror writing.
Obedience begins where interpretation ends – not because thinking is forbidden, but because another person carries the meaning. In our room, what I wrote held exactly as it stood. For three hours his world was precisely as large as my sentences. That sounds like confinement. He experienced the opposite: for the first time in years he did not have to be his own first reader.
Gutenberg knew something similar about metal. A piece of type is reversed so that the impression comes out true; it never reads its text, it carries it. Power, as I understand it, is the right to read. Surrender is the willingness to be read without knowing how you look while it happens.
At the end I put a blank sheet in front of him: one sentence that is yours, in reverse. He wrote for a long time and crossed nothing out. I read it in the mirror, folded the sheet and put it in my pocket. What it said I have never told him. ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’ stands at the end of the Tractatus. Sometimes it is enough that one person reads and the other knows it has been read.
Eleven past eleven on Schillerplatz
He travelled back to the Rhine the same evening. At ten his report came, a photograph from the train: one sentence, the ordinary way round, and in it a misspelt word, uncorrected. I let it stand. It belonged to him.
I kept the sheets from Munich, and the seven strokes left over from the twelve as well; he knows they are there, but not when I shall claim them – in Munich, and only if he says yes again then. Between appointments I go on leading him from a distance: the sentence in the morning, the sentence in the evening, the camera on Thursdays. The following week a colleague asked him whether he had been away; he looked different, she said. He said he had been in Munich. Nothing more.
On the eleventh of November, a Wednesday, he had taken the morning off. At eleven minutes past eleven he stood on Schillerplatz, in his inside pocket an envelope I had given him in Munich, which he was not allowed to open until the Fools’ Basic Law was read out from the balcony of the Osteiner Hof. Around him jesters’ caps, trumpets, red, white, blue and yellow – a city that for a whole season follows laws no one means and everyone keeps. In the envelope was one sentence in my hand, in mirror writing.
He had no mirror with him. He read it all the same, letter by letter, from right to left, in front of the carnival fountain crowded with its bronze fools, and nobody beside him knew what he was doing. What the sentence said stays between us. Only this much: it contained a mistake. M. did not correct it.
Two voices from the guestbook
M. is an invention. The two entries that follow are not: they stand word for word in my guestbook, written in German by real guests and given here in faithful translation, and they come neither from M. nor from any other character in this story. I place them here because both describe, from their own experience, how far my guidance reaches when I am not in the same room – even if some of it echoes in the story.
‘I was in Asia on business for ten days. Even there, she guided me. Daily tasks, short reports, a strict protocol – over eleven thousand kilometres. I came back a different man from the one who had flown out. Nobody knew why.’ — guestbook entry (translated from German)
‘I was under her guidance for an entire Saturday. She decided what I wore, when I ate, whom I spoke to – even though I was out in the world, in ordinary life. Nobody noticed a thing. Inwardly, I was in a state unlike anything else.’ — her instrument, guestbook (translated from German)
Remote control in reality: what holds true from the story
The story compresses weeks into a few pages. In reality, remote control begins with a preliminary conversation in which I want to know what your everyday life looks like and what it can bear: who might read over your shoulder, when you are alone, which tasks would touch on your work. Your body is part of it too – circulation, medication, allergies, old injuries, even a sensitive hand if you are to write for me. It is best to enter all this beforehand in your profile in the Safe Room; you confirm the consent and health declaration before every request.
- Safeword and hand signal: Before every session we agree a safeword that ends any action at once, in the studio just as in front of the camera. For stretches in which you must stay silent, we add a hand signal. Along the way I ask where you stand and expect an honest number. More on this under taboos, limits and safety.
- By video: The remote session lasts 45 minutes and costs from €180; whatever remains after the deposit is paid before it begins. It covers mental guidance, tasks, humiliation, chastity and tribute.
- Tasks between appointments: Morning and evening reports, dictations or rules for an entire day are agreed individually in the preliminary conversation. They do not run by themselves; I decide when they begin and when they end.
- In the studio: Restraint with cuffs, ropes or straps, caning with a number of strokes agreed beforehand and counted, interrogation and humiliation are included in the hourly fee. Chastity requires at least 120 minutes, and so does psychological torment. On top of that there is always the room fee for Studio 60.
I determine content and intensity within what we have agreed; there is no entitlement to any particular practice. No intercourse, no oral sex. How guidance at a distance works over weeks I describe at length in the essay Remote Control.
From Mainz to Studio 60 in Munich
From Mainz Hauptbahnhof to München Hauptbahnhof the train takes around three and a half to a good four hours. At present there is just one direct ICE, early in the morning; otherwise you usually change once. Check the connection for your day, as timetables change. From the main station the S-Bahn takes you on into the north-west of Munich; you receive the exact address after confirmation and deposit.
What I tell guests from Mainz for their planning:
- Begin in the afternoon: If you have a good four hours of travel ahead of you, choose an afternoon appointment. If you begin at 1 pm, you catch an early-morning train and, after one hour or a three-hour Intensive, are usually back on the Rhine the same evening.
- The room first: First you book and pay for the room at Studio 60 for the time you are requesting, then you send me the screenshot.
- Punctual and sober: No Federweißer in the morning, not even on a Saturday. Anyone who has been drinking is not received. If your train is held up, write to me at once; if you are 30 minutes late or more without a word, the appointment counts as missed, and lateness does not extend the time.
- First the camera, then the journey: If you do not want to make the trip yet, get to know me in the remote session. Some paths begin in front of a screen in Mainz and end in Munich.
Discretion runs in both directions: I do not ask about your employer, and nobody in Mainz learns from me what happens in the studio. If you are coming from Thuringia, you will find your own route under dominatrix Erfurt.