From a Munich dominatrix story to a real session
If you live in Munich, you do not have far to come. I give my in-person sessions at Studio 60, a BDSM studio in the north-west of the city, and nowhere else: not in your flat, not in a hotel room, not in an office. This story is set in places you may walk past every week. Its characters are invented; the kind of session at its heart is one you can actually book – alone with me, or as a duo with my dominus.
This is how reading becomes an appointment:
- Choose a date in the calendar: set the format – one hour, the three-hour Intensive or a 45-minute Remote session – then pick the day and time. For the duo, tick the box next to Alexander Blake.
- One click opens WhatsApp or Telegram with a prepared message that already contains the price and a reference. The appointment becomes binding only when I confirm it to you personally.
- A €50 deposit holds the date and is credited against the fee. You reserve and pay for the room at Studio 60 directly with the studio and send me the booking as a screenshot. The room rent is not part of my fee.
My fee is €250 per hour, and €300 per hour for hours starting from 8 pm; for Alexander Blake, €300 per hour is added. The details are under prices, and how the duo works under mistress and dominus. If a visit to the studio does not suit you just now, or you are away from Munich, you can reach me by video: 45 minutes, worldwide, from €180. I speak and write German and English. Stories that begin in other cities can be found under dominatrix Stuttgart and dominatrix Dresden.
Munich nights: Glockenbach, leather and a cellar on Maximiliansplatz
Munich goes out more quietly than other big cities, and with more precision than outsiders imagine. The Glockenbachviertel around Müllerstraße and the neighbouring Gärtnerplatzviertel have been known for decades as the heart of the scene; in the 1960s, the story goes, the police advised a businessman who wanted to open a gay bar in Schwabing to try his luck there instead, because such bars were tolerated in that quarter. In 1967 came the Ochsengarten, which to this day bills itself as Munich’s first bar for men in jeans, leather, uniform and rubber. Sunday is fetish day there, and on Thursdays, when the SM Stammtisch – a regular get-together – meets, the “men only” rule is, for once, suspended.
Part of the scene meets in a more organised way at the Münchner Löwen Club, a gay association with a fetish focus that hosts its own dress-code evenings and parties. All of it becomes most visible in summer at the CSD, Munich’s Pride: two PrideWeeks with more than eighty events, and in 2025 some 300,000 people lined the parade. In 2026 the street festival moved, for reasons of space and safety, from Marienplatz to Ludwigstraße, which begins at Odeonsplatz, a few steps from the Hofgarten.
If you want to dance, you go down into the cellar of the Rote Sonne on Maximiliansplatz: techno since 2005, room for a few hundred guests, with queer party nights in between. Things are quieter right by the Hofgarten, at Schumann’s, founded by Charles Schumann in 1982, on Odeonsplatz since 2003 and for many years the haunt of writers and journalists.
Munich has professional dominatrix studios as well, but they keep a low profile: no neon signs, no shop window; you find them through their own websites. I name none of them here. My place in this city is Studio 60 in Moosach. That is where the story leads, too – not on one of these nights, but on a bright Monday afternoon.
Eight arches and a bar line
What follows is fiction: J. and his orchestra do not exist. The Hofgarten, the Tambosi and Nietzsche’s words most certainly do.
In late October the light in the Hofgarten already hangs low by mid-afternoon. It slants over the yellow towers of the Theatinerkirche, falls through Klenze’s Hofgarten Gate – his first building in Munich, from 1816, a gate like a bar line between square and garden – and comes to rest on the gravel. From the Temple of Diana at the centre, eight paths lead away, one from each of its eight arches. From a chair you cannot see the pattern. You only walk it later.
I was sitting at one of the tables outside the Tambosi with tea and a dog-eared copy of “The Birth of Tragedy”. Coffee has been served at the Hofgarten since 1775, when a certain Giovanni Pietro Sarti opened a counter here selling coffee, chocolate and lemonade. In 1810 Luigi Tambosi took over the lease of the coffee house, and his name stayed. I like places that hold a form for so long.
At the next table a man was beating time. Not with his foot, like people who only listen to music, but with the index finger of his right hand, just above the tabletop, in small, very exact figures. A cello sounded from the temple; a street musician was playing Bach beneath the dome, between the four wall fountains with their shells. The man was conducting him without realising it.
“He’s rushing,” he said, when he caught me watching. “He’s afraid of the rest.”
“And you?”
He looked at my book, then at me. “I’m afraid of everything that comes after it.”
His name was J.; he was a conductor, and in those weeks he was rehearsing a “Tristan” – where, he did not say, and I did not ask. The opera had its premiere in Munich in 1865. Nietzsche opened his book with a preface addressed to Richard Wagner and, in its twenty-first section, asked whether anyone could hear the opera’s third act without word or image, as a pure symphonic movement, and not perish of it.
“Apollo is my profession,” he said. “Entries, tempo, balance. Ninety people watch my right hand every evening.”
“And Dionysus?”
“Him I demand of them. I’ve never had him myself.”
I read him the lines in which Nietzsche describes the god of form: “that measured limitation, that freedom from the wilder emotions, that philosophical calmness of the sculptor-god”. He gave a short laugh. “That’s me. Except for the calmness.”
On the roof of the temple stood the Tellus Bavarica, a female figure embodying the land of Bavaria. I told him she was a copy; Hubert Gerhard’s original stands inside the Residenz, sheltered from the weather. “Like me,” he said. “It’s the copy that stands outside.”
Then he asked what I did for a living, and I told him. He did not flinch. He thought it over, his finger in the air. “Can you do both? Form and rapture?”
“I am the form,” I said. “For the rapture I work with a dominus. Alexander Blake.”
“Two conductors in one room. That never ends well.”
“There is no second conductor. There is one score and there are two voices. I write the score.”
I paid for my tea, gave him the name of my website and said, “Write to me. Not today.” In the temple the cello broke off, in the middle of a phrase, and for a moment the whole garden held still. J.’s finger hung in the air. I walked out through the gate onto Odeonsplatz and did not look back.
A score in three letters
His first letter came four days later by Telegram, and it was built like a concert programme: occasion, cast, duration. Intensive, three hours, with dominus. I replied with questions, not with a yes.
Experience? None, he wrote, only fantasies, and embarrassingly precise ones. Health? A tendon in his right shoulder, irritated by twenty years of conducting; blood pressure fine, no medication, nothing wrong with his heart. Limits? Nothing anyone could see on a conductor in tails, so nothing on the neck or the hands. The hands were off limits anyway; he needed them again on Thursday.
I wrote back with my rules. His arms never go above shoulder height. The rope lies around his wrists, in front of his body, loose enough for two fingers, and it never comes near his neck. Before the cane speaks, my hand warms him up. The cane lands only on the buttocks, never on the tailbone or the kidneys, and there is a ceiling: thirty-six strokes at most in three hours, in stages that I set. J. may end it at any moment. He comes sober in any case – that day he even skips the glass of wine with lunch.
As a safeword he suggested “Fermata”. I refused. A fermata prolongs; it ends nothing, and a word from his own trade was one he might, at the wrong moment, mistake for music. We chose “Pebble”, after the gravel paths of the Hofgarten. And a sign without words, in case his voice failed him: he would hold his own baton in his hand. If the baton falls, it is over. No questions, no consequences.
His second letter was short and came through the calendar on my website: a Monday, 2 pm, Intensive, the box for the dominus ticked, the room at Studio 60 booked and paid for by himself, the screenshot attached. I confirmed; he paid the deposit.
Alexander read my notes the evening before. “So I’m the rapture,” he said. “And what if he doesn’t want it at all?”
“He wants it. He has just never learnt to let it take him. You take the beat away from him. I hold the count.”
The third letter came at midnight. Today in rehearsal I cut a general pause short. The orchestra noticed. I did not reply. Some sentences need no answer, only an appointment.
First movement: sixty beats to the minute
He was at the door at two minutes to two and waited there until it was two. Dark suit, phone already off, the fee in an envelope. Of course.
Alexander leaned against the wall and said nothing. J. looked over at him three times, until I told him, “He isn’t here yet. You will know when he arrives.”
Form first. I had him repeat the word. “Pebble.” Then I laid the baton in his right hand, closed his fingers around it and repeated what we had agreed: if it falls, everything stops. I tied his wrists in front of his body, two turns of cotton rope, a knot that does not tighten, two of my fingers between rope and skin. I asked about tingling. None. The loose end stayed in my hand; which way he leaned, I decided with two fingers. He stood bent forward over the back of a heavy chair, his bound hands on the upholstery, the baton between his fingers as if waiting to give an entry.
A metronome stood on the table. I set it to sixty. “You know the tempo. The cane falls on a beat that I choose. You count aloud.”
My hand came first, flat and even, until the skin was warm and his breathing followed the pendulum; to those strokes I gave no number. Only then did I take up the cane. I began lightly, almost courteously, and built up over twelve strokes. He counted flawlessly. He counted too flawlessly. At seven I could hear that he was expecting the next stroke before I had chosen it; at ten his voice had the tone one uses to assure a full house that all is well. He was not with me. He was on the podium.
The Apollonian had not let go of him; it had given him a hiding place. The cane was too orderly for him, my counting too easy to follow. Beneath my form he could disappear just as well as beneath his own.
After the twelfth stroke I reached for the pendulum and stopped it, mid-swing. All at once the silence in the room had weight.
Second movement: the other voice
Into that silence Alexander spoke for the first time. He stood behind J.; I could see him, J. could not. “From now on you don’t count.”
J.’s lips moved all the same. “I can hear you counting,” said Alexander, very calmly, and the lips went still.
What followed had no metre. Two strokes in quick succession, then a long emptiness in which only the rope rubbed softly against the upholstery. A word from the left, from me; one from the right, from him; then nothing for a long time. Alexander walked around him, and J. could not hear where he stood. The rapture was not noise. It was the impossibility of hearing ahead.
The count was kept regardless. I counted every stroke in silence, and before each one Alexander looked to me. He could be wild because I held the count; I could be silent because he filled the room. Two voices, two hands: mine lay around J.’s bound wrists, his guided the cane.
After Alexander’s seventh stroke I knelt in front of J. Fingers warm, colour good, the rope sitting where it should. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good. Do you need the word?”
“No.”
At the tenth the baton trembled. I saw the fingers give and raised my hand; Alexander stopped mid-movement. I asked whether J. wanted to stop. He shook his head and tightened his grip, and only then did I nod. That is what such hours are about: not the stroke, but the second before it, in which someone freely decides to go on.
After the twelfth, nothing more came. And in that nothing he broke down. Not the way a house collapses. More like a concert hall that realises, after the last chord, that it has been holding its breath all along. He wept, loudly and without shame; he had not wept for years, he told me later, not even at music.
I undid the knot, took the baton from his hand before it could fall, and put my arms around him. Alexander stepped back to the wall. I held J. until his breathing was calm again and his back no longer heaved under my hand like the back of someone who has been running.
Then I stood up and held the baton out to him. “You can also leave it where it is. Then we are done.” He took it. “Go on,” he said, and it did not sound like the podium. I bound his hands afresh, as loosely as before, checked fingers and colour, set the metronome back to sixty and gave Alexander a sign. I made no fuss about it. There was no pity in that calm, and that was precisely where the respect lay.
The rest we struck between the two of us, six strokes in turn: one from me on the beat, one from Alexander in between. J. did not count. He listened. Thirty of the agreed thirty-six; the remaining six were never struck, and that, too, was part of the form.
Dionysus speaks the language of Apollo
For the Apollonian, Nietzsche borrows an image from Schopenhauer: on a raging sea a boatman sits calmly in his boat and trusts his frail barque, just as the individual, in the midst of a world full of torments, trusts in being a self with clear boundaries. J.’s boat was the beat. With it he had weathered every wave for twenty years, his own included. In the first movement I had merely given him a better boat. In the second, Alexander took it away from him – and he did not go under, because someone else was holding the count.
For the relationship of the two in tragedy, Nietzsche finds the image of a fraternal union: “Dionysus speaks the language of Apollo; Apollo, however, finally speaks the language of Dionysus.” In our room that meant: Alexander’s wildness ran within my count, and my count only made sense because his wildness needed it. Without form, the rapture would have been mere noise; without rapture, the form would have been just another rehearsal.
Power, as I saw again that afternoon, does not lie with the cane. It lies with the one who keeps the measure, and the measure holds only because someone has consented to it. Freedom, for J., did not mean finally being rid of the beat. Freedom was leaving the beat to someone he trusted, while knowing, the whole time, a word that would end everything. He did not say “Pebble”. The baton did not fall. Both were there, and that is why he could let go.
Afterwards we sat for a long time. I checked his wrists – a few red lines from the rope that would fade by evening; what the cane had left behind, nobody would see under any tailcoat. I gave him water and a blanket. Alexander took his leave with a nod; he had not spoken thirty sentences all afternoon. J. asked, “Who was counting?” – “I was. The whole time.” At that he laughed, for the first time that day, without controlling it.
Two weeks later a message came, a single line: Last night, third act, before the final entry let my hands drop and waited. Longer than the score says. Nobody coughed.
That same evening I walked through the Hofgarten. Outside the Tambosi the chairs were being stacked; under the arcades the frescoes of Wittelsbach history lay in half-light. In the Temple of Diana someone was playing the cello again. Between two phrases he paused, and the whole garden – eight paths, the gravel, the arches – held the rest with him. I bent down and picked up a pebble. I still have it. A word that never had to be spoken weighs little and lasts long.
Two voices from the guestbook
The two entries below were not written for this page. They are real voices from my guestbook: J. is invented, their authors are not, and they have nothing to do with the characters in the story. I set them beside it because, in their own words, they speak of responsibility and of tears – without anyone having to invent a thing.
“For forty hours a week I am responsible for sixty employees. When I leave Alexa’s room, that responsibility is mine again. But between the leaving and the coming back lies something I did not know I needed. She showed me that my system is capable of a pause – when the right person leads it.” — Marcus S., entrepreneur, 52, guestbook entry (translated from German)
“In my fourth session I broke down in tears for the first time in my adult life. It was not a crisis. It was a liberation. She held me until I could breathe again. Then she carried on as if nothing had happened. That was the dignity I had needed.” — Henrik N., 44, guestbook entry (translated from German)
Further entries, in their original German, are in my guestbook.
Mistress and dominus in a real session
The story condenses; reality does not. I offer a duo session with Dominus Alexander Blake as one hour or as a three-hour Intensive, and only in person at Studio 60, not by video. For him, €300 per hour is added to my hourly fee, plus the room fee paid to Studio 60. Caning discipline and restraint with rope or straps are included in the fee; practices that carry a surcharge or need a minimum duration are agreed beforehand.
- Preliminary conversation: What you know, what you wish for and what must under no circumstances happen, we settle beforehand – in writing, and once more in the room. How Alexander and I divide the roles is my decision, made according to your wish and my plan.
- Health: Shoulder, back, circulation, medication, allergies – anything your body does differently under strain belongs in your profile in the Safe Room beforehand. You confirm the consent and health declaration with every request.
- Safeword: It applies to both of us. If you say it, every action ends at once, whichever of us is carrying it out. For moments when words fail you, we also agree on a sign.
- Cane: It comes only after a warm-up. Where it lands and how many strokes there will be at most are fixed in advance; the count is always kept, even when you cannot hear it.
- Rope: I check fingers, colour and sensation, the neck stays free, scissors are at hand, and as long as you are bound, one of us stays with you.
No intercourse, no oral sex. That applies to me and to Alexander Blake alike. Who the duo is for, I explain under mistress and dominus; more about the cane is under caning and spanking, and about limits and stopping under limits and safety.
Across Munich to Studio 60: getting there and planning
For guests from the city the journey is short, but that is no reason to plan it in passing. From Odeonsplatz, where this story begins, the U3 runs to Moosach without a change, in about twenty minutes; from the Hauptbahnhof, the main station, the S1 takes you there. You plan the last stretch on foot once you have the address; it comes after confirmation and deposit, and until then the district is enough.
- Date first, then the room: Choose the format, day and time in the calendar, then book and pay for the room at Studio 60 for exactly that time, then send the request and follow it up with the screenshot. For a duo, tick the box for the dominus beforehand.
- On time: Journeys within your own city are easy to underestimate. Allow half an hour to spare; lateness does not extend the session, and if you are 30 minutes late without letting me know, you count as a no-show.
- Sober: No after-work beer, no detour via the Oktoberfest, no glass beforehand to steady your nerves. If you have been drinking, you will not be received.
- Discreet: In your own city discretion weighs double, and it applies on both sides. You switch off your phone before we begin; photos, videos or sound recordings happen only if we have agreed on them beforehand.
After the session, take your time. If you like, get off at Odeonsplatz on the way back and take a turn through the Hofgarten before everyday life resumes.