The Domicile

Sensually sadistic, The DOMicile is a theme restaurant in a tucked-away alley deep in the northwest corner of Washington D.C. The restaurant's expensive fare is only outweighed by its disturbing décor and unorthodox service.

In a richly textured atmosphere of low lighting, black velvet furnishings and rich crimson carpet, The DOMicile caters exclusively to women trying to make it in a male-dominated world. Well-dressed, coiffed, and manicured they arrive for lunch or dinner when they are immediately seated and promptly served by strapping young men trussed up in leather briefs, harnesses, leashes, and hoods. If that isn't shocking enough, the waiters are shackled allowing only enough movement for them to carry out their services. In the ultimate effort to curb annoying commentary about the daily specials and the quality of service, they are gagged.

This reporter couldn't help but wonder why anyone would want to work, let alone, eat in such a dismal and cruel environment. What could possibly have motivated the owner and dominating hostess, Belle Seduisante, to create an establishment of fine dining and sadomasochistic slavery?

"There are plenty of exclusive gentlemen's clubs in the metro-DC area where topless women serve tables and get heir bunny tails squeezed. I simply saw a market to satisfy women's unspoken desire – to treat men like objects and order them about for a change," Belle explains with a sly grin that spreads apart her glossy red lips.

Today she dons a skintight leather outfit à la Cat Woman, complete with a tail-cum-whip. She crosses her long fishnet stocking-covered legs and leans back in her plush black leather office chair. Her posture sets a tone to remind me that I should be grateful for this interview.

It is apparent that not only men are subjects to her cruel will.

She leans forward and licks her lips. "Tell me, lamb chop. You seem to be a young ambitious woman. How do you find competing against your male counterparts who are out to undermine your work, cheat you out of equal pay, and view you like some sorry little whore who should be prone on her back rather than standing tall and proud?"

A long curved black fingernail rises to my lips before I can answer. Belle, the Dom, would control my very words. "Is it no wonder why women flock in droves to my domicile?"

Belle stands up on black stiletto heels and towers over my puny frame. "Now, little dumpling, feel free to explore the place, talk to my customers and my staff. Just don't ask for names and or take any pictures. I must tend to the stables to see that my work animals are fully harnessed and bridled to go." She escorts me by the arm out of her office and into her dining room of humiliation and pain.

It's lunchtime and the DOMicile is filling its plush seats with seasoned regulars and tender first-timers. I manage to get invited to sit with two veteran diners whom I'll refer to as "Maryann," a thirty-something stock broker at a major investment firm, and "Carol," a slightly older and grayer client of the former. I ask how long they have been coming to the DOMicile and what the allure for them is.

"Well, I can only say that as shocking as this place is with its bondage theme and all, I find I can get release from my daily tensions of running an art gallery, contending with tantrum-throwing artists, and cut-throat dealers – mostly male. The nasty, threatening, ball-breaking behavior is still the same. I find myself constantly playing the compromiser, the mother figure, and the dick stroker in order to keep my business alive. Here I know I can be as abusive to these slave servers as people are abusive to me, although, I really never can bring myself to do many of the things other patrons do," Carol blushingly tells me.

"Carol is a real pussycat most of the time, but when she has to, she'll extend her claws. As for me, I don't hesitate to express my deep-seeded urge to jerk on a man's leash and pull his face down to crotch level," unabashedly admits Maryann.

No sooner has she made her comment than a server approaches our table. Before he can raise his shackled hands to offer a menu, Maryann grabs the strap dangling from the studded collar around his neck and pulls forcefully down. He drops to his knees with a harsh clank of chains and grunts through his ball gag.

Maryann holds his hooded head low to the floor and snarls. "Listen, you pathetic sack of shit, I don't want your stinking menu that you probably stick up your ass now that your hamster's died after suffocating in there. You know what I want, don't you? Don't you?"

Through his gag, the server garbles the name of the poached salmon entrée he knows is Maryann's usual.

Maryann's teeth-bearing grimace of intimidation transforms into a soft smile when she asks her lunch companion, "What would you like, Carol, dear?"

Carol calmly dictates her order of salade Niçoise with a bottle of Perrier.

Maryann gives the leash a sharp tug. "Did you get that? Now get up and move that sodomy-loving ass of yours. We haven't got all day!"

I can't help but feel concerned for the slave server as I watch him scramble to his shackled feet and shuffle hastily away in the manner of a man who's just broken free from a chain gang.

Unbelievably, lunch is served with grace and expedience. Carol does not further demonstrate her powers of humiliation until it is time to pay the check and leave. She orders him to remove his gag, which forces him to double over so that his shackled hands can reach his face. As he bends down, she cracks the check tray over his head. She then orders him to look up and open his mouth. Maryann stuffs a wad of bills in between his teeth and walks out with Carol, who never bats a baby-blue eye over her financial advisor's sadistic streak.

I catch up with the deprecated waiter and two of his equally abused coworkers in the alley behind the restaurant during their break. They have removed their gags and hoods for a breath of fresh air and a smoke. He asks that I call him "Tim." Between drags he tells me why he subjects himself to such degradation and torture.

"Yeah, it's amazing how a guy like me could be doing a job like this. I'm a second-year law student at American University. Waiting tables is a main means to foot the bill for tuition and books, but regular hog-slopping at family restaurants is a total drag. The whiney customers and their screaming brats are worse an ordeal than what I go through here. Plus the pay is crap and the tips are nearly non-existent. Here, I have a piece of the action on top of my earnings."

"How do you mean?" I ask.

Smoke streams from his aquiline nose as he explains, "Ms. Seduisante offers her employees shares in the business. So far, it's been turning a decent profit, and the tips, well," he reaches inside a leather shoulder bag and pulls out the wad of cash that had been stuffed down his throat. The cigarette with a long drooping ash hangs from his cupid lips while nimble fingers pull apart the bills. Through sandy lashes, Tim peers at three bills featuring Ulysses S. Grant's bearded mug. "For only a $500 tab, this is quite generous. Those angry pent-up beyotches can pee on my face if they like. "

Tim snubs out the butt on the gritty asphalt. He reaches in his bag and pulls out the leather hood that he slips over his pretty-boy features. His two coworkers follow in suit and head back into the DOMicile for more lucrative punishment.

By the end of the lunch session (which runs from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., reservation only) I learn a reassuring but disturbing truth: women want power, and they want to exert it. The DOMicile gives them the chance to feel powerful even if for one hour in a day. In a city and society where women mostly play submissive support roles, it is not surprising that they pay what amounts to a week's pay for the average worker on lunch for the pleasure of allegorically dishing out the subjugation they endure from the mouths and at the hands of boyfriends, husbands, and bosses.

"Think about it," Belle tells me before setting up for the dinner hour, "For women to survive in this wicked world they have to cater to men's ways. They have to submit to men's systems. They have to use the language and wear the dress men want for the domicile and the workplace. Otherwise, they are not considered compatible, employable, or professional. In compensation, I offer them a taste of domination. It's not the least surprising how many women from the meekest to the mightiest take me up on that offer."

Although the price for the DOMicile's fare is high and definitely not to everyone's taste, this reporter sees it as a post-modern mode of therapy for women to vent their frustrations while relishing a four-star meal.

Mandy Jarré is a reporter for The Beltway Inside Out, a magazine that explores and exposes the viscera of America's power core.

Copyright 2005. The information contained in this report is fictional and exclusive to the wicked mind of the author. It is not for reproduction or distribution, even by those warped enough to want to do so.