The power in their hands
Portrait of a Dominatrix: Between War Escapism, Lust for Control—and the Search for Security and Freedom. Text and images; June 2025, Pit Buehler
A nondescript prefabricated building in Warsaw. First floor. A small, bright apartment, decorated with fresh flowers, two faithful dogs - and a woman who has created her own place in the world. She is in her mid-thirties, comes from Ukraine and has lived in Poland since the war. She used to manage an IT company with over 200 employees, mostly men. Today she is a professional dominatrix. A woman who controls, humiliates and dominates men for a fee. And always retains the upper hand.
She calls nine men her slaves. Touching is taboo. Everything is a game: ritualized, controlled, strictly regulated. Power instead of closeness. Rules instead of romance. The men she works with are all from the upper echelons of power: politicians, entrepreneurs, top athletes. She treats them with the same confident naturalness with which she once led her teams - calm, determined, without a hint of insecurity.
I am a photographer. In one of my long-term projects, I focus on creatures of the night - people whose life plans lie outside our conventions, beyond what is socially agreed.
A few years ago, I met a mistress in Kiev - biologically male, in women's clothing, precisely staged. She took part in a shoot and invited me to a Shibari ritual afterwards. Bodies hung there, artfully tied up, like living sculptures. The contact remained loose. When the war broke out, she was also drafted. She held out for three months, then fled - mentally exhausted, physically unharmed. Today she lives with her submissive partner in Warsaw and is in gender transition.
I wrote to her before my trip to Warsaw. She replied promptly - and took over the organization of the shoot. With carefully selected characters from her scene, including the dominatrix.
I remember our first meeting in the studio - she appeared with a presence that didn't seek attention - it had long been hers. No hesitation, no calculated mystery - she spoke about her profession as a dominatrix with the casual clarity of a woman who has long since distanced herself from the need to justify anything.
Her openness didn't seem like an offer to talk, but like a silent filter. A test. Which I had obviously passed. She registered my mixture of curiosity, skepticism and a touch of being overwhelmed - and she enjoyed it. In the end, she said, almost as an aside: "If you want, come with me to a kinky party tomorrow. You can document my transformation and accompany me - at least until the point where silence becomes more important than pictures.
Did I know what I was getting myself into? Probably not. But who wants to know for sure. Curiosity is a vice that I can afford as an artist.
I meet her again a few hours before the party, at her home. Her apartment: simple, almost reserved. No pomp, no props. "I make a strict distinction between work and private life," she says. She lives with her sister, a professional ballet dancer. Her mother helps her choose outfits - leather, latex, corsets - and supports her with marketing. "I'm not the black sheep of the family. Rather the bravest."
Over tea, she presents me with a deck of cards. Not a tarot, but a psychological exercise to determine fetishes. I'm supposed to sort the cards: attractive, neutral, repulsive. Power games, pain, bondage, feet. I try to be honest - maybe even funny. She says nothing when she sees my selection. She smiles - promisingly, slightly mockingly - and puts the cards aside without a word. Whether surprised or disappointed remains to be seen. She keeps her own fetish to herself. Still.
The kinky party takes place in an anonymous bar outside the city center. In the basement: shimmering red massage rooms, Shibari installations, a love room, a glory hole and lounges. Upstairs: a dark gallery and an open bar. Everyone is welcome here. Boundaries are not blurred - they are negotiated.
I accompany them to the dressing room. Become part of a transformation process. Her petite body slowly disappears under a second skin - latex, black, shiny, mercilessly tight. She looks breathtaking in it, almost superhuman - everything fits, everything is emphasized. I move closer for a close-up. Perhaps too close. The smell is hard to ignore - something between a clinic and a garage. I think of the annual winter tire change. Latex, definitely not my fetish...
"She is not a cliché. Not a myth. She is a woman who knows exactly what she is doing. Independent, unapproachable, sensitive - and consistent. Relationships? No. Children? Not an issue. Her freedom is her greatest asset.
The rules are clear: no touching, no sex. 15 minutes cost 100 dollars. The slaves have to cook for her, clean her, worship her. Some pay for her to run over their backs in razor-sharp high heels and be humiliated, others love the whip. It's not about physical pleasure. It's about pain, control, dominance, playing with it.
And sometimes, she says, her slaves are also useful. When her mood changes, when she herself has a bad day, a slave is called in. Without warning, without cause. To cook, scrub, polish, lick the floor with his tongue until it shines like new. As often and as long as the mistress pleases.
The mood is subdued that evening. No escalation, little excess, rather quiet observation. None of her slaves are here. "This is no place for encounters with them," she explains. I observe, document, remain silent. She waits, says little. Even in silence, she remains the center of attention. A woman who is not looking - but is ready to be found. Perhaps there is someone sitting in this bar who will soon follow her instructions. Or maybe not. It doesn't matter. "I choose my customers. I make the rules."
The audience: a trans mistress with her submissive slave, a young couple, scattered figures in between - women and men, barely veiled, but open to what is happening beneath the surface.
At the end of that night, I had many questions - and the feeling that I had encountered a world that has less to do with obscenity than with structure, control and a deep desire for order. A world that is not open to everyone - but which, for a moment, allowed me in.
As we walk, she puts her hand on my shoulder. Leans forward. And whispers in my ear:
"Long-haired men are my fetish."
Then she disappears. Silently, resolutely - like a shadow that knows the darkness is waiting for it.
