Egg Show

When I was about 23 I worked at a dungeon in Midtown Manhattan (where all the dungeons where around that time before the raids).  It was a really fun job for, like, the first few months because I got to see all sorts of weird stuff, and I didn’t have to do very much, which was cool. I got to wear whatever I wanted, and had cool people to talk to.  It was very entertaining.

I got to learn how to do all sorts of stuff like medical sounds, piercing, bondage, I learned all sorts of subtle cues for manipulation, and of course I learned A LOT about human nature.  

In the end, I left the job because I became overwhelmed by the constant depravity.  It was depressing a being in an environment where people were constantly at their most vulnerable.  It was exhausting having to make sure no one felt shame.  I am not saying they should have felt shame.  I am just saying it was my job to guarantee that they didn’t.  I learned so much about people’s interests and motivations that to this day I have a remarkable sense of empathy for humanity.  I find everyone to be obvious, and tiresome even the people I enjoy.  I see pain, and fear everywhere.  I, also, saw levity, and began to understand the nuances of pleasure and sexuality in a way that I couldn’t have learned anywhere else.

That said, some really funny and interesting things happened while I was there I believe my favorite stories is “Egg Show.”  I have told this story a million times, I have even written it down, but I have never written it down like I tell it.  So here goes. 

The dungeon used to have these discount “Parties.”  Submissives could come into the space, and there were refreshments, and the girls would be there to meet and greet them.  The Mistresses would walk around, play with the guests, and entice them to get a small sample session, usually foot or a flogging.  On occasion a client would then upgrade to a full session with the Mistress of their choice.  It was all very informal, and fun. 

These parties usually attracted two types of clients, the very well behaved who could not normally afford such attention or the pig that craved public humiliation. The girls really had a good time with it. People don’t realise that a dungeon is usually empty (at least in NYC).  It is a very private place, so if you want a crowd you have to plan it.  

One time, I had this very tiny Japanese man come to the party.  He didn’t speak a word of English.  He came specifically to see our Japanese Mistress, she was tiny, covered in American flash tattoos, Rockabilly, very cute.  She hardly spoke any English, at all, herself.  

They go into one of the dungeon rooms to negotiate the session.  About 10 minutes later, the house intercom buzzes.  And the Mistresses high pitched heavily accented Japanese voice asks me to come to the room.  

I get to the door, and knock.  She opens the door giggling in the most quintessential Amine style, and motions for me to come in.  The room is sparse, but tasteful.  Forest green walls, Asian artifacts, and a custom bondage bed. The tiny Japanese man is wearing a grey suit, and stands next to an ornate chair.  He’s holding box of vegetables from the bacteria bar downstairs. There is a vintage wheeled bar next to him, with a bowl of hard-boiled eggs in it. 

The Mistress points at one of the vegetables in the box and barks, “What is this?”

The man looks down, without pausing says, “That is my tail.” His accent is super heavy, his voice is assured until he bursts into giggles his eyes crinkling with the delight of a child. 

I pause, nonplussed, then I giggle too. I couldn’t help it.  The Mistress looks at me her smile fighting to remain controlled, but erupts.  Our laughter just grows and grows, into a crescendo, and finally the entire room is filled with the cackling of these two girls and a tiny Japanese business man. The Mistress ushers me out of the room, and I continue to laugh as I head down the hall back to my desk.

About 25 - 30 minutes pass, and the intercom buzzes again.  The tiny Japanese Mistress beckons requesting that every girl in the house join her.  I knock on all the doors collecting girls as I make my way down the hall.  There are now about 12 girls in various states of undress trailing behind me. We get to the room, and there is the tiny Japanese man, in the middle of the room naked under a perfect spotlight.

He is crouched over a puppy pad lain over an exquisite Oriental rug. We stand in a small semi-circle around him.

Without warning the tiny Japanese mistress claps her hands twice, and at the loudest her tiny lungs would allow, she screams,


The Japanese man, begins clucking like a chicken.



Frances Eugenia