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Under a canopy of bamboo trees with a large statue of Buddha to our left, she talks about her relatively new job as an independent high-end dominatrix.

“In some, things like blindfolds, cuffs, whips, floggers, ropes and canes hung from the walls in neat rows. * * * “There is no stereotype of who visits a domme,” Josie says.

It was extraordinary.” “Pick a pseudonym and come back tomorrow,” the young mistress told her. This job will forever change the way you think about men.” And the following day, Josie found herself sitting in the sprawling living room of one of New York’s premiere domme houses (a dungeon run out of the mistress’s home) waiting for her first client. “I see teachers, politicians, bankers, surgeons, religious figures, fathers, you name it.

Josie becomes more animated as she discloses the more explicit details of the fantasy, such as her verbal humiliation of him while he stands in his boxers and yarmulke beside a wall adorned with hooks, shackles and suspension equipment. I spit at him and tell him that he’s absurd and deserves to be caught.” After her tirade, she lays down on the couch and watches him “standing there, totally frozen, with his head bowed, apologizing for being such a weak and bad boy.” When she is satisfied with his remorse, she opens her arms wide and the young Hasid “falls to his knees and crawls to me, gasping and repeating ‘thank you my goddess,’” she says, a slight smirk playing at her lips.

“I begin circling him and shouting in his face that he’s pitiful little prick,” she says. Samuel spends the remaining time with his face buried in her armpit, inhaling and sighing, stopping only occasionally to readjust his yarmulke.

Living in a tiny room with her giant grey tabby and struggling to pay the bills, she eventually gave up activism because “the hours were long, and it didn’t pay.” Soon after, she started waitressing full-time at a swanky downtown café.

From the moment she walked into the cafe, with its ambient lighting and seductive lounge music, Josie knew this was not the place for her. So against her better judgment, the staunch vegan began waiting tables—serving models and young jet-setting Europeans one avant-garde hamburger after another. “Sick that someone would eat it and sick that I was betraying my own beliefs.” While trying to decide whether to go back to school, move back home or get yet another activist gig, she continued to take orders and refill salt and pepper shakers.

Feeling optimistic, she returned to her small Brooklyn room and immediately began researching online the different aspects of the job, from dungeons to salary to equipment.