Inside New York City’s hidden S&M dungeon

I never thought I'd work in a place with a real Red Room of Pain, let alone Black and Blue Rooms of Pain.

But here at the Den, we not only have three color-themed adult romper rooms but "medical suites" that would make even Christian Grey blush.

Dakota Johnson as Anastasia Steele in the upcoming movie "Fifty Shades of Grey"Photo: YouTube

The medical rooms are framed by polished white tile and centered by a reclining physician's table covered in butcher paper. Biohazard waste containers line the walls. Tongue depressors and cotton swabs peek out from the glass doors of metal cabinets.

"These rooms are for men with medical fetishes," my trainer told me on my first day as a mistress apprentice.

"What kind of medical fetishes?" I asked, thinking of the usual slutty-nurse fantasies.

"Oh, like rectal examinations, instruments . . . that sort of thing," she replied. "You know."

I didn't know. Like Anastasia Steele in "Fifty Shades of Grey," I was about to get an education.

Located a floor above a nail salon, the secret sex lair has security cameras covering the building's front door, vestibule, elevator and stairs as well as our suite's front and back doors. There are no signs, not even a mailbox, indicating what's inside.

To get an appointment, you need to find the Web site and fill out a "slave application." "Are you into infantilism?" "Do you consider bruises 'tokens'?" "Do you live to serve?" It also asks you to create a code name.

Photo: J.C. Rice

If we're convinced you're not a cop, you'll enter a lobby covered in Persian rugs, gilt-framed mirrors and the scent of perfume and incense. You might hear muffled voices coming from behind the lobby doors. Those are the girls — as many as nine at a time — chatting, changing clothes, trying shoes, applying lipstick, watching movies, swapping costumes.

Sorry, ladies, there are no Christian Grey-like "masters" working in real-life dungeons.

The Blue Room

Even male clients are mostly submissive or "switches." The few "doms" who do come in are seldom good-looking. And they are always married.

I slouch into work in sweat shirts and leggings. I don't fix my hair, and I'm not wearing makeup until just before my eight-hour shift begins. I borrow heels from the communal shoe closet (mostly fetish heels and boots, sizes 6 to 9). Some men come in for foot worship or trampling, so most of us are ready with fresh pedis. A few clients have fingernail fetishes and request a girl with a nice manicure.

A typical client — we'll call him "Big Bad Bobby" — arrives at 11. He's a banker who has ducked out of his Midtown office for an "early lunch." He's buzzed in, and the manager meets him at the suite door and escorts him into the Red Room.

If he didn't make an appointment with a particular girl, there's a "meet." We totter in one at a time. He has requested a "sensual domme" beforehand, so I know exactly how to treat him.

His first question: "Will you spank me gently and chastise me so that I may beg forgiveness for being unworthy of you?"

Sure, whatever. I cup his chin in my hand and lift his face to mine.

"If you are truly sorry," I purr, "for being lower than the dirt, for being so pathetic that you cannot pleasure me properly . . . I suppose for once I can be . . . merciful in your correction."

Visibly aroused, he croaks, "I choose you."

I leave so the manager can extract the fee — $220 an hour or $150 for a half-hour, cash. The girls get $80 out of that, per hour, plus tips.

Photo: Getty Images

In the office, I'm handed a buzzer and black-fabric basket. The basket is filled with whatever toys, whips, floggers or costumes I think he'll want. Everything is kept under lock and key and must be scanned out for use. Every condom is numbered and accounted for. Management knows exactly which girl used how many with what client.

I load up on essentials: lube, a black whip with a silver handle and a fuzzy-backed paddle.

Photo: Getty Images

My client has requested a drink — scotch — and I carefully pour it from our bar. The manager scans it out. Even the cups are scanned.

I walk down a dim hall lit by sconces, classical music gently piped in. Behind the doors I pass, I hear slaps, low voices of mistresses giving orders, men mumbling as they struggle to comply.

Photo: Getty Images

Farther down is the Black Dungeon, with its own bathroom, shower and an imposing, black-leather four-poster bed with complicated suspensions hanging from the top. There is no mattress, just a black leather pad and chains hanging from each corner.

The Red Dungeon features gas masks, carnival masks and an enormous leather straitjacket hanging from a mannequin. There is plenty of floor room for groveling and begging.

The Blue Dungeon is dominated by the 6-foot-tall wooden Wheel of Pain. The client can be strapped to the wheel and spun.

The Cross-Dressing Room is always the coldest. It looks like a modern lady's boudoir with green walls, hat stands, magazine racks and comfy couches with pillows. The armoires are stuffed with feather boas, garters and other dainty things, although our male cross-dressers usually bring their own wardrobes.

When I enter the Red Dungeon, I notice Big Bad Bobby has dimmed the lights and is standing in the middle of the room, shivering slightly, wearing nothing but his socks. I shut the door with a bang.

"Did I tell you to disrobe?" I ask, my voice low and emotionless.

His eyes widen. "Well . . . I like to . . . I wanted . . ." he stammers.

"Did I tell you to disrobe?" I ­repeat.

"No."

"That's right, I didn't. You have no discipline. Put your slacks back on, right now. Or else you get nothing today."

I turn around and set the basket on the floor, bending over so he can see under my dress, see the tops of my stockings and black vinyl panties. He groans, but obeys.

I settle myself into a leather throne and extend my hand, now holding the whip.

"Now crawl to me."

The Wheel of Pain

Some of us only do domination work — we will spank you, use sex toys on you, insult you. There is a girl who keeps her own bamboo canes to beat clients. She's been a dominatrix here nearly as long as the business has been open — almost two decades — and won't do submissive work.

But most of us aim to please. Want me to dress you in a diaper, give you a bottle and sing you lullabies? Sure. Want me to step on you with heels, slap you, put pantyhose on you and point at you and laugh? I serve humiliation hot.

Some of us are paid to be submissive playthings like real-world Anastasia Steeles. Want me to wear a tiny, plaid schoolgirl skirt, knee socks, with my hair in pigtails, while you give me the spanking I so deserve? Just ask.

We won't do it all, though. We don't have to do anything we're uncomfortable with. And we're not supposed to have sex with clients, or do anything involving bodily fluids. But tips and fees can be enormous, and that can grease the skids, among other things, with some girls.

We serve men who come from all over the tri-state area to have their deepest, darkest desires fulfilled, fantasies they're terrified to reveal to their own spouses. Some clients, especially the drugged-up, wired ones, will stay for eight hours at a stretch, until closing at 1:20 a.m., racking up bills well into the four figures.

When the buzzer sounds and blinks red, the session is over and the decidedly unglamorous part of the job begins, the part you don't see in books and movies.

Remember the "essentials" I mentioned? Every girl gets a spray bottle of alcohol and gloves — for cleanup. We're responsible for making the room spotless for the next client. Even the masters have to be servants sometime.

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