How A Night In A Black Kink Lounge Taught Me To Be A Dominatrix

I didn’t set out to become a Goddess.

My desire was to study Black kink spaces, especially how Black women moved through them. I wanted to better understand my sisters, maybe even myself, and our complicated relationship with pleasure. So when a friend invited me—gorgeous, commanding, a corporate executive who melted into a bratty baby girl at the sound of her daddy dom’s voice—I said yes. I slipped into my favorite little black dress and the heels that laced delicately around my ankles like a promise. The thought of watching her shift from boss b*tch to obedient plaything thrilled me more than I expected.

I had no idea what I was in for.

I stepped into that BDSM lounge as a curious onlooker, maybe even a voyeur. I had no plans, just a quiet craving for something different, something sexy, something more than I believed was possible. The lounge was pulsing with smoke, candlelight, and bodies that knew themselves and others. And then there were ropes, cuffs, whips, hot wax, baited breath, and the occasional scream. A warmth ran through me, not of fear, but of recognition. In this place, finally, pleasure wasn’t shameful. It felt ceremonial.

In that dimly-lit room, I watched Black bodies of all hues, shapes, and sizes dance in power—one person tied, another touched gently, someone else being f*cked into submission. I felt completely at ease. Not aroused in the way I expected, but seen. This wasn’t the kind of performative kink I’d read and heard about. It was soft, and not, reverent, honest.

That’s when I met Marcus.

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He was a well-respected daddy dom in the community—older, sharply dressed, dark-skinned, with locs to his shoulders and eyes that studied you like scripture. He took one long look at me and smiled.

“Welcome, beautiful. You carry yourself like a queen,” he said, “but not the kind waiting around to get picked. More like a goddess—like you already know the world is yours. I love that kind of energy.”

Marcus asked if he could show me around and introduce me to some folks. He ended up being my guide for the night, clearly impressed by my intelligence and quick wit, and maybe the fact that I wasn’t fawning all over him like some fangirl. By the end of the evening, he’d invited me to join his house and submit to him.

I hesitated. The idea of being taken care of by Marcus was intoxicating. But to yield? To obey? That’s never been my thing.

I smiled. “Submission isn’t my calling.”

He chuckled. “Exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

That night, he gave me a new title: Goddess Nandi, after the Zulu warrior queen.

“You don’t kneel,” he said. “You command. Your power is soft, but it’s still very much power. You deserve to be worshipped.”

And that’s when the fire caught.

Marcus introduced me to Eric a week later. We met at his home during a small, private gathering of trusted players. I arrived wrapped in gold lingerie, my skin kissed with shimmering oil, and my lips glossed with a honey hue. I was channeling Osun—the Yoruba Orisha of sweetness, love, and pleasure. I wore gold hoops that grazed my collarbone and anklets that chimed softly with every step.

Eric was younger than Marcus, maybe early thirties. Smooth brown skin, a quiet confidence in his shoulders. He was the kind of man who didn’t speak unless it meant something. Eric was a switch, Marcus told me, someone who could dominate or submit depending on the energy in the room and the woman he was pleasuring.

“But I think,” Marcus said, “he’s been waiting to serve a woman like you.”

Eric took my hand gently. “I’m honored to be here with you, Goddess,” he said. “I’d love to learn how to care for you. How to please you.”

My body buzzed with delight. Eric was beautiful and eager to serve. Most men enter sensual play believing they already have all the answers to what women desire. They lack curiosity. They’re boring lovers, honestly.

But not Eric.

I let him kneel before me as I sat in a velvet chair. I told him to remove my shoes and massage my feet. His hands were steady, strong, and gentle all at once.

“Yes, Goddess,” he whispered with every command, and believe me, I gave him plenty. I moaned without shame. His mouth found its way to my ankles, then my calves, each kiss a prayer. The night melted into sensation—gold, fingers, yesses. He watched my body like a student hungry for knowledge, and I tested him again and again, until he passed with flying colors and trembling devotion.

I didn’t give him my honey pot that night. He’d need to work harder, to do more, before I’d offer him the sweetest part of me.

We both ended that night wanting more.

Eric and I didn’t fade after that first night. We became… something. A rhythm. A ritual. My name remained “Goddess,” and he became the temple where I worshipped myself. I had recently ended a relationship, and time with Eric reminded me that not only was I worthy of the things I’d been asking for, but that what I desired was possible.

He spoiled me—lavishly and intentionally. Fresh flowers every Thursday. Lingerie in my favorite colors, which he knew because he took meticulous notes when we talked. Books by Black women wrapped in bows, with handwritten notes tucked between the pages. He rubbed my back while I wrote essays. Made breakfast on mornings after I taught late-night classes. Ran errands without being asked. Sent money for things I didn’t yet know I needed.

There was no tally. No scoreboard. Just him, in service, and loving every second of it.

One afternoon, while I lounged in bed naked, he stood at the foot of it, shirtless, waiting.

“Do you need anything, Goddess?” he asked.

I looked at him and smiled, loving the way his body shimmered in the sunlight that peeked through the blinds.

“I need your mouth,” I said.

“Yes, Goddess.”

No hesitation.

I spread my legs slowly, as if I was unwrapping a divine offering, and he fell to his knees like he’d been summoned. What followed was worship—his lips parting, his tongue praising, his hands grounding me. I reached for the headboard as he worked his magic, groaning, grinding into his hunger, whispering blessings between gasps. I was in heaven. Later, as I lay sprawled and glowing, he cleaned me gently with a warm cloth. He kissed the inside of my wrists, then my forehead. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I want to be yours forever,” he said.

I believed him.

Because through Eric’s care, I had become radiant to myself—more beautiful, more majestic, and softer than I ever imagined I could be.

What started as kink play became a kind of medicine. His submission helped me unlearn years of rejection, invisibility, and hardening. I softened. I glowed. I no longer settled for the bare minimum in intimacy, or anything else. I no longer mistook convenience for care. I was kissed on command, touched with reverence, held without expectation beyond my desire and approval.

My yes was scripture.

My no was law.

It felt too perfect.

In many ways, this was spiritual work. Every time I adorned myself in gold, I was channeling Osun, the Orisha who reminds us that sweetness is not weakness, that beauty is divine strategy, that softness can bend men to their knees. Eric once told me that he loved being my mirror. And that’s exactly what he was: a reflection of my worth, my desire, my power. Through him, I saw myself more clearly. And the more he gave, the more I believed I deserved it.

This world teaches Black women to be mulesl, but rarely to be worshipped. To hold everyone else, but rarely to require being held. But in our little world—in our play, our rituals, our intimacy—I was sacred. I was centered. I was a Goddess.

And I still am.

I carry that energy everywhere now. In my walk. In the way I receive. In the way I say no without apology, and yes without fear. Being a goddess dom isn’t just about command. It’s about being deeply, audaciously open to receiving. And in a world that tries to strip Black women of that right, reclaiming it felt like the most radical thing I could do.

It’s an experience I wish every Black woman could have.

Let them serve.

Let them kneel.

Let them adore.

I deserve it all.

And so do you.

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