A dominatrix for guests from Wiesbaden: sessions in Munich
If you search for ‘dominatrix Wiesbaden’ and land on my page, you should read the most important thing first: I do not receive guests in Wiesbaden. My in-person sessions take place in Munich, at Studio 60, and nowhere else; I do not come to your home, to a hotel or to your office. If you are willing to make the journey from the Rhine to the Isar, you will find me there. If you cannot, you will meet me by video.
This is how you arrange an appointment if you live or work in Wiesbaden:
- Under choose a date you pick the type – one hour, Intensive (three hours) or Remote (45 minutes) – and then the day and the time.
- When you send it, WhatsApp or Telegram opens; the message with price and reference has already been drafted for you.
- I reply personally. The appointment becomes binding only with my confirmation; the €50 deposit secures it and is credited against the fee.
- You reserve and pay for the room yourself, directly with Studio 60; the room hire comes on top of my fee.
An hour with me costs €250; if it begins at 8 pm or later, €300. The remaining items are listed under prices. For the remote session you need no room: it runs worldwide by video, lasts 45 minutes and costs from €180, with the balance due before it begins. You speak and write to me in German or in English. The story further down circles around tease and denial, the game in which I decide how long you wait.
Wiesbaden by night: casino, old town, Kesselhaus
Going out in Wiesbaden is not like going out in Frankfurt: it is quieter, with more columns than neon, and it has a casino whose history reaches back to the eighteenth century. What is open there in the evening, and what is on the calendar:
- Kurhaus and casino: Roulette, blackjack and poker are played in the Kurhaus’s former wine hall, panelled in cherry wood; the slot machines stand in the east wing of the glazed Brunnenkolonnade. Nobody gets in without ID. Next door, in the Friedrich-von-Thiersch-Saal, concerts and balls are held.
- The old town around Goldgasse and Grabenstraße: wine taverns, restaurants and bars sit close together here – the place for the part of the evening when people are still talking.
- Kulturzentrum Schlachthof: run collectively and independently since 1994, with its main hall and the Kesselhaus. On the programme: concerts from punk to hip-hop, techno nights in the Kesselhaus and queer parties too.
- Festivals through the year: in June the Theatrium around the Staatstheater, the Bowling Green and Wilhelmstraße; in August, for ten days, the Rheingau Wine Week around the Marktkirche and the town hall; from the end of November, the Sternschnuppenmarkt, Wiesbaden’s Christmas market.
In this region, fetish is most visible in public at a trade fair: between Wiesbaden and Frankfurt, at the Messecenter Rhein-Main in Hofheim am Taunus, BoFeWo – ‘Bondage Fetish World’ – is held twice a year, with more than a hundred exhibitors, shows on the main stage and workshops on subjects such as bondage and spanking; the dates announced are 5 to 7 March and 8 to 10 October 2027. Frankfurt, less than an hour away by S-Bahn, offers a wider choice of studios and fetish parties. I do not name other studios here. If you live on the other side of the Rhine, you will find a story of its own under dominatrix Mainz.
A green zero in the wine hall
I had come to Wiesbaden that September evening for a concert, and when the last chord had faded beneath the lavishly ornamented ceiling of the Friedrich-von-Thiersch-Saal, I was in no hurry; my train to Munich did not leave until the next morning. I crossed the domed hall, where marble copies of Athena and Apollo stand on green plinths, and instead of stepping out onto Wilhelmstraße I went across to the casino in the north wing. There, in the former wine hall with its cherry-wood panelling, the ball has been rolling for decades. At the entrance I showed my ID; here they want to know who is playing.
He was not playing. That was the first thing I noticed. At one of the roulette tables stood a man in his early forties in a dark suit, with no chips in front of him, holding a squared notebook and a pencil. After every spin he wrote down the number without looking to see who had won. Seventeen. Four. Zero. At the zero, the corner of his mouth twitched.
‘You are keeping a record of something that is already over,’ I said.
‘I am keeping a record of the fact that there is no pattern,’ he replied, without looking up. ‘Every so often one has to prove it to oneself afresh.’
He was an actuary, he explained to me later – an insurance mathematician. He calculated the odds that a roof will catch fire, that a person will fall ill, that a life will end sooner than planned. ‘Risk doesn’t frighten me. Risk is a number. What I can’t bear is the individual case.’
When we went outside later, the Bowling Green lay in darkness, the two cascade fountains were rushing, and above the portico, in the light of the façade, stood the inscription AQUIS MATTIACIS, dedicated to the waters of the Mattiaci. We walked along the Brunnenkolonnade, which lines the lawn to the north. It has been glazed since the fifties, a columned hall a hundred and twenty-nine metres long; in the east wing the casino’s slot machines blink behind the glass. He was counting the columns; I could see it on his lips. Shortly before the end I said, ‘Stop.’ He stopped, in the middle of a number, and walked the last few paces without knowing how many there had been. I watched the calculation run on inside him and find nothing to hold on to.
‘You always count,’ I said.
‘Always. It’s calming.’
‘It isn’t calming. It’s numbing. And someone has just taken the result away from you.’
He knew the history of the casino, of course. In August 1865 Dostoevsky was stranded in Wiesbaden, his travelling money lost at the roulette table in the old Kurhaus, the one that stood on this spot before Thiersch built the present building. It took him almost two months to get away. After little more than a week the Hotel Victoria would no longer give him anything to eat, only tea, and what acquaintances such as Turgenev sent him barely covered the debts that had piled up. A year later he wrote ‘The Gambler’ in twenty-six days, and anyone who knows Wiesbaden believes they recognise the old Kurhaus in Roulettenburg, the square in front of it, the avenue to the hotel, even though Baden-Baden and Homburg make the same claim.
‘Thirty-seven pockets,’ said the actuary, ‘one of them green. The whole house rests on that zero. He could have worked it out.’
‘He knew. He played anyway. Do you think it was about money?’
‘What else?’
‘The second before the ball drops. The second in which nobody can calculate. Not even you.’
He was silent for a long time. Then he said that he had never gambled in his life, not even on the lottery. ‘I can’t bear having my fate decided by something that doesn’t know me.’
That was the sentence I had been waiting for. I took the pencil out of his hand, opened the notebook at the page with the roulette numbers and, beneath the last zero, wrote not a number but my web address. ‘There is a difference between chance and a woman who decides,’ I said. ‘Chance will never know you. I will. Write to me – and count on my making you wait.’ Then I walked away, down Wilhelmstraße, without turning round. I knew that he was watching me go and that, against all habit, he was counting nothing.
Nine days without an answer
His first message came four days later and read like an application for life insurance: numbered points, cleanly worded, nothing left out. Age, height, profession. Blood pressure, well controlled with one tablet in the morning. No experience; instead, as he wrote, ‘a precise idea of what I cannot do: lose without knowing the reason’.
I did not reply. Not that day, not the next. Five days later a second, shorter message arrived: had the first one reached me? On the ninth day after his first line I sent him three sentences. Later he confessed that in those nine days he had thought of me more often than of his actuarial tables, and that at some point after the seventh day he had stopped counting the days. The waiting, he wrote, had already been the game before it began. I did not contradict him.
In our preliminary conversation we got down to specifics. I wanted to know what he did not want: no more than mild pain, nothing that would show the next day, no photographs, not a word about his work. I wanted to know what his body could tolerate. Because of the blood pressure I struck electro-stimulation off the list, asked him to take his tablet as usual and had him record everything in his profile in the Safe Room. He wanted to know whether he could ‘win’ in the end. I wrote: ‘Whether you are given permission at the end is my decision. You agree beforehand that the answer may also be no. If you don’t want that, say so now.’ He took an hour to give me his word. It was: ‘Agreed.’
Then the safeword. He suggested ‘Zero’, and I refused. A word that may come up in the game is no good as an emergency exit. We settled on ‘Colonnade’, a word nobody in a room in Munich says by accident. To that we added a scale he liked because it was made of numbers: if I ask him where he stands, he answers with a number from one to ten. One means easy. Ten means: any moment now I’ll say the word.
In the calendar he chose a Thursday afternoon, booked and paid for the room at Studio 60 and sent me the request with the screenshot. After my confirmation the deposit arrived, that very evening. On the evening before the appointment he received a single line from me: ‘Bring nothing but your notebook, and come sober.’
Three minutes of sand
He arrived on time, on the train from Wiesbaden, his phone switched off, the squared notebook in his inside pocket. I took it from him at the door and laid it on a small table, beside three things he was meant to see there: a brass hourglass that runs for three minutes, a white die and a leather dice cup.
I had him take a seat in a heavy chair and buckled leather cuffs around his wrists, which I fastened to the armrests. I checked that two fingers fitted under the leather, had him open and close his hands and asked whether anything was tingling. ‘If you say Colonnade, everything stops immediately. Not after the next throw. Immediately.’ He nodded. ‘Say it once.’ He said it, quietly, and I could hear that he knew how it sounded.
I explained the rules only once. He throws; I hold the cup out to him, and he lets the die drop into it from his fingertips. Even means: I come closer. Odd means: I turn the hourglass over, and for three minutes he stays perfectly still, without a word, without a movement, without me.
He did the sum at once; I could see it in his eyes. Fifty-fifty, a fair game. His shoulders relaxed.
Even. I stepped behind him and spoke so close to his ear that he felt my breath before he understood my words. With a hand in a black leather glove I traced a slow line along his forearm to the cuff and back again. Odd. The hourglass: three minutes in which I sat opposite him and looked at him without doing anything at all. He could not hold my gaze. Even, even, odd. I built the tension in him like a wave, and every time I sensed that he was nearing the edge I took my hand away, in the middle of the movement, and left him hanging there, just short of it. The sand ran, and in the room there was nothing to hear but his breathing and the fine trickle in the glass.
After the sixth throw he whispered, ‘Four even, two odd.’
‘You’re counting,’ I said.
‘I can’t help it.’
‘You can. You are learning, even now.’
The cup stays closed
On the seventh throw I took the cup away from him. I let the die fall into it, shook it, set the cup upside down on the table and lifted it just far enough that only I could have seen beneath it.
‘Odd,’ I said, and turned the hourglass over.
He strained against the cuffs. ‘Show it to me.’
‘No.’
‘That’s cheating.’
‘That’s the bank.’
I watched him wrestle with it. For seventeen years he had been paid to believe nothing he could not check by calculation. Now he sat on a chair in Munich and was expected to believe a woman holding a cup in her hand. He pulled at the cuffs, not hard, more like someone testing whether a door is really locked.
I waited until half the sand had run through. ‘Where do you stand?’
‘Seven.’
‘You know the word.’
A long pause. ‘I don’t want to say it.’
‘Then tell me what you want.’
‘To know what’s under the cup.’
‘You won’t. And now?’
He gave no answer. He closed his eyes, and something in his face gave way, the way a fist opens when it has held on too long to something that is no longer there.
From then on there were no more throws. The cup stayed where it was, over a number he would never learn. I decided. Closer, away, sand, voice, silence. He no longer asked about even or odd; he had understood that the question had lost its object. Twice I let him come so close to the edge that his hands closed around the armrests, and twice I left him there. When the sand had run out for the last time, I bent down to him and said, ‘Not today.’
He laughed. A short, astonished laugh, as if someone had waived a bill he had believed he could never pay.
‘Where do you stand?’
‘One.’
I undid the cuffs, rubbed his wrists, gave him water and let him sit for as long as he wanted. We talked quietly about nothing in particular, about the train, about October. I did not lift the cup.
Twice two makes five
In ‘Notes from Underground’, Dostoevsky gives his narrator a sentence that every actuary ought to hang above his desk: ‘twice two makes four is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death.’ And straight afterwards, almost tenderly, the admission that twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too. The Underground Man is not rebelling against mathematics. He is rebelling against a world in which everything has already been worked out, himself included. What man wants, he says, is simply independent choice, whatever that independence may cost and wherever it may lead.
The gambler in the Kurhaus looks for the same thing in the wrong place. He wants the moment in which the calculation stops, and he leaves it to a ball. But the ball has no ears. It does not hear a safeword, it does not ask where you stand, it does not pause when your hands tremble. And in the long run, whatever it sets in motion belongs to the green zero anyway, and so to the house. Whoever gives himself up to chance gives himself up to something that does not see him.
What my guest went through in Munich looked similar from the outside and yet was its opposite. He did not know what lay under the cup either. But it was no wheel that ruled over his not-knowing; it was a will that looked at him, that heard his number and that would have stopped at once at a single word. Therein lies the difference between powerlessness and surrender. Powerlessness has chosen no one. Surrender has chosen to whom it hands its not-knowing.
The Underground Man left one thought unfinished. The independent choice he cries out for can also consist in handing over the bank: freely, with eyes open, for an hour, to someone who knows how to hold it. Freedom, then, does not mean that everything depends on you. It means that you have decided whom you trust, and that you can take back what you have given at any moment. The safeword is no concession to weakness. It is the proof that the surrender belongs to you.
Dostoevsky himself came to Wiesbaden once more, in 1871, lost again and wrote to his wife that this had been the very last time. He never went back to a gaming table after that. The city in which he had lost himself became the city in which he stopped. My guest had never gambled; he did not have to stop. He had to begin not knowing.
Without counting
His message came the next morning, unusually short and unnumbered. On the journey home, he wrote, about an hour before Wiesbaden, he had leaned his forehead against the window because his eyes had suddenly grown wet, and he had found no explanation for it. He had not been sad. It was more as if someone had lifted from him a weight he had never once put on a pair of scales. At the office he would tell nobody about it, no colleague, no friend. But he would know.
I let him wait two weeks for a reply. He did not ask again.
What I never told him: on the seventh throw I did not look under the cup myself. I lifted it, but I was looking at his face, not at the die, and I said ‘odd’. The number never mattered. What mattered was who spoke it.
In November he wrote once more. One Sunday afternoon, he said, he had walked along the Brunnenkolonnade, from the Kurhaus over to Wilhelmstraße, past the tall windows behind which the slot machines blinked in the east wing. On the Bowling Green the wind had been driving the leaves across the lawn, leaf after leaf, as evenly as sand through a glass. It was only at Wilhelmstraße that he had noticed he had not been counting. To this day he does not know how many columns there are.
‘Good,’ I wrote back. ‘That number belongs to the bank.’
Two voices from the guestbook
The two entries below appear word for word, in German, in my guestbook; here they are faithfully translated. They come from real guests and have nothing to do with the actuary from Wiesbaden or with any other character in this story, even if some of what they say echoes it.
“The two weeks between sessions are sometimes harder than the sessions themselves. She makes me wait. She does not answer straight away. She controls not only the hours in which I am with her, but the days on which I am not. I have learned that this is the real practice.” — Andreas B., guestbook (translated from German)
“I have not told anyone in my outside world. I will not tell anyone. But on the evening when I was in subspace for the first time, I pulled over on the drive home and cried, without knowing why. I was not sad. I was relieved. Relieved of a weight I had not known.” — Daniel R., guestbook (translated from German)
Tease and denial in a real session
The story is invented; the practice is not. With me, tease and denial is included in the hourly fee at no extra charge, as is restraint with cuffs, straps or rope, which I like to combine with it. Dice, cup and hourglass are not a fixed programme. Whether I play with props is something I decide after the preliminary conversation and according to what I see in you.
Before we begin, we settle four things:
- Limits: whatever you do not want, you name beforehand, and it does not happen. What I do not offer is set out under limits and safety.
- Health: blood pressure, heart, epilepsy, allergies, injuries and medication go into your profile in the Safe Room. That determines what I use and what I leave out.
- Safeword: a word that does not occur in the game. It ends any action at once, even in the middle of a build-up.
- The ending: whether you are given permission at the close is mine to decide. There is no entitlement to it, and you agree to that beforehand.
No intercourse, no oral sex. If you want to carry the denial beyond the hour, chastity and keyholding is where you should look: as a session of its own in the studio it needs at least 120 minutes; as keyholding it can also be supervised by video. Why men who must keep everything under control at work so often like to hand over control for an hour is the subject of my guide why men see a dominatrix.
From Wiesbaden to Studio 60 in Munich
The train from Wiesbaden Hauptbahnhof to Munich Hauptbahnhof takes around four hours, usually with one change, in Frankfurt or Mainz, for instance. In Munich the S1 takes you from the main station straight to Moosach, where the studio is; I send you the exact address after confirmation and deposit. By car it is a good 400 kilometres, and a flight from Frankfurt saves hardly any time once you factor in the trip to the airport and the wait at the gate.
For the day itself:
- Plan ahead: if you are spending four hours travelling, an afternoon is a better choice than the last slot of the evening. A delayed train shortens your time with me; it does not extend it. Write to me as soon as a delay looks likely: anyone who arrives more than 30 minutes late without a message counts as a no-show.
- The room first: reserve and pay for the room at Studio 60 for exactly your time slot, then send the request and follow it up with the screenshot of the booking.
- Check your return journey: before booking, look up when the last train towards Wiesbaden leaves. After a late appointment, a night in Munich is often the calmer choice.
- Punctual and sober: that holds even after four hours on a train. Anyone who has been drinking will not be let into the room.
With me, discretion runs both ways. Nobody in Wiesbaden will learn from me what you do in Munich, and a first name is enough for your request. You must be 18 or over; I may ask for proof of age. If you come to me from the Saarland, you will find a story of its own under dominatrix Saarbrücken.