There is more to life than sex; there is more to Amsterdam than the Red Light district. Yes, really. The next day, we had a stroll along the canals, had a coffee, and then went to the Rijksmuseum. And it was in there, as we looked at the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, that I saw her again. I heard a voice behind me, speaking in Dutch, but I recognised the voice of the dominatrix from last night. So I turned and there she was, looking at a picture on the other side of the room with one of the slave girls - the one who had been whipped. But if I was surprised to see them, I was even more surprised by how they were. For one thing, they were both dressed perfectly normally. No, the domme wasn't in a long leather coat or furs or anything of the sort: she was in jeans and top and jacket; her slave girl was in a jeans and jumper - apart from the fact that the domme was taller than her slave, there was no hint of any sort of sexual power relationship at all.
In fact, if anything it was the slave girl who seemed to be in charge. Certainly she seemed to know more about the paintings - she would point out little details and the domme would nod. And it was the slave girl who seemed to be leading as they went round and the domme who was following. I sat on a seat and just watched them for a while: soon I realised that I wasn't thinking of them as domme and slave, but as two friends - lovers, probably - one taller than the other. It might have been a let-down, but it wasn't: somehow it made the sexual spark of last night more real - this might be their everyday reality, but I had seen their other reality. I knew. I was intrigued by them, no question.
I tried not to make it too obvious that I was following them round the museum, but I was still quite relieved when they went into the museum cafe. I told Cathy and Sue I'd meet them there.
The two women were sitting at a table with their coffees, chatting quite normally. I bought myself a coffee and tried to summon the courage for what I knew I must do next. I sat down at a table near them, sipped my coffee, took a deep breath - and went over to their table. They looked up.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, "but I had to say - I saw your show last night."
To my surprise, the domme looked rather alarmed but the slave girl gave me a big smile.
"And?" she asked. "Did you like it?"
"Oh, I loved it," I said. "It's what I've been waiting for all my life."
Then they both smiled.
"Pull up a chair," said the domme.
Her name was Lisa; her slave was Miriam. Lisa worked full-time, or as ear full-time as she could, performing in shows and taking clients, but Miriam worked in an insurance company. She had a degree in Art History - hence the knowledge about Rembrandt and Vermeer.
"Was it the first time you'd seen something like that?" asked Lisa.
"Yes."
"And how did you feel about it?"
I looked at Miriam. "To tell the truth," I said, "when I saw you kneeling there and worshipping Lisa, I just wanted to be you."
Miriam reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. She understood.
Cathy and Sue came in at that point, so it was introductions and how do you like Amsterdam? and did you enjoy the show? and so on. All very nice, but not very private. But then Lisa said to me, "Why don't you come over to the flat this afternoon? About two? We can talk some more." I hesitated - this was still very new and it all seemed to be moving rather fast, but Cathy said I should and that Sue and she could look after themselves. We would all meet up again about four. Lisa nodded: that would be enough time. I was still hesitating - "Oh, I don't know..." - but then Sue decided it for me.
"Louise," she said, "we brought you here to help you get back on your feet. It seems to me Lisa can help you do that. And it seems to me you need what she can give you. You should go."
So I did.
Her flat wasn't quite as I had expected - somehow I had imagined something modern, whereas it turned out to be old and traditional, on the top floor with no lift. I did wonder what it must be like living on the floor below a professional dominatrix but maybe Amsterdamers were used to it. I rang the bell and Miriam answered. "Come in," she said, smiling. Lisa was sitting watching a film on television, but she switched it off and went to make the coffee. Again, this surprised me - shouldn't her slave be doing that? Miriam saw the look on my face.
"You see, Louise," she said, "there are lifestyle Dommes and slaves, sure, but you don't have to go that far. To be honest, I don't really understand how people manage it, though I know they try. There are still bills to pay, jobs to be done and someone has to remember to buy the milk and phone your mum. You can't spend your whole life in a bondage chair. Lisa and I are lovers and we mix ordinary love with our sex life like anyone else, I guess. In ordinary life we are - as you see."
"But when it's time for sex, things get very different," said Lisa, coming in with the coffees on a tray. I sipped mine - it was good, better than I had been expecting.
"So," said Lisa, "what do you want to know?"
"I want to know about submission," I said. "About slavery. About what it is and how it feels and - I suppose - why do you do it?"
They both reflected a moment, and then they looked at each other. Lisa gave Miriam a look as if to say she should answer me.
"Tell me," said Miriam, "when you watched the show last night, what did you think? Not about Lisa: about me?"
"That's just it," I said. "I admired you, Lisa - I was in heaven just looking at you. But I couldn't understand you, Miriam. And I needed to, because when I saw you kneeling like that, naked, with your collar on, I knew I wanted to be the same as you. But I need to know what that means."
"Well," said Miriam, "when I go into the zone, when I become Lisa's slave, it's as if I find a new me. It's hard to explain, but it's a sort of liberation. I surrender everything - everything - to my Mistress. My hopes, my worries, my fears, everything that troubles me - "
"And your body," I said.
"Oh yes," she replied, "definitely that. It's the ultimate in sacrifice, in trust -"
"In love," added Lisa.
"Love?" I asked - genuinely surprised.
"Of course," said Miriam, laughing.
"I have the easy part," said Lisa. "I get to strut around and crack my whip and have everyone falling at my feet and licking them - anyone can do that, if it's in their nature. It's in mine, as you saw. But what Miriam does -" and here she brushed her hand gently over Miriam's cheek - "takes real courage. To give yourself so completely, to take whatever punishment I choose to give - and I can whip hard - that is a sign of true love, of true devotion."
Before I could say anything, Miriam added: "And on Lisa's part too. She knows I need to be hurt, I need to be punished. And she gives me what I crave. Not many people will do that for you in life." And she reached out and squeezed Lisa's hand.
They were obviously deeply in love.
"What about you, Louise? " asked Lisa. "Do you need to be punished?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "Oh God, yes. For so many things."
"Don't tell me," she said, "unless you really want to. I'm not a therapist. But if you need to be punished, I will punish you."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you!" I said it without thinking. But what had I said? What had I allowed her to do? I was excited - but a bit scared.
"Take a moment," she said. "Think of what you have done, why you need to be punished. And when you are ready, I want you to stand up."
"All right."
I closed my eyes. I thought of all the things that had gone wrong in my life, of the divorce, of the mistakes at school, of bad decisions and people I'd hurt - there was just so much of it. I couldn't choose just one; I felt I needed to be punished for them all. I needed this - I needed it in all ways possible. Because it was right, because I owed it to so many peopIe, because I owed it to myself. But above all - and I realised this now - because I wanted it. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. Somehow, that letter of Beth's came back into my mind - "Spank me! Please spank me!" I understood her now. I wanted punishment, I craved punishment. I wanted to be chastised, to be spanked, to be beaten - maybe even to be whipped. (Okay, that was Advanced level punishment. I was in the beginner's class. All in good time.) I opened my eyes and, looking straight ahead, I stood up.
"Good," said Lisa. "Now take off all your clothes, one by one. Fold them neatly, and as you take off each one, tell me what you are."
"What I am?"
"Yes. Tell me what you are."
I was puzzled for a moment, but I started with my jumper: I took it off, folded it up and laid it on a chair. And as I did so, I knew what to say.
"I am shit," I said.
I took off my boots and placed them neatly under the chair.
"I am fucking shit. A pile of fucking shit."
I undid my belt and unzipped my jeans and slid them down my legs, stepped out of them, folded them up and placed them on the chair.
"I'm a whore."
I unbuttoned my shirt, slipped it off, folded it, and placed it on the chair.
"I'm a bitch. A fucking bitch. A fucking bitch in heat."
I slipped off my socks.
"I'm a dirty fucker. I look respectable and clean, but inside I'm a dirty, filthy cow. I'm a dirty, dirty girl."
Fuck me, but I was getting turned on. I unclasped my bra and hung it on the back of the chair. I hesitated a moment about showing my tits, but then I stood boldly before them, my tits sticking out firmly, my nipples proud.
"I'm a fucktoy. A filthy dirty cocksucker. A whore, a fucking whore. I'm your fucktoy."
I slipped my knickers down my legs and stepped out of them, straightened them and laid them on the chair.
"I'm your slave. Your fucking whore. Your piss slave. Your slut. Your dirty, fucking bitch. Your cunt slave, your cocksucking cunt slave. I'm a pile of shit and I need to be treated like one. I'm your fucking teacher whore."
I stood defiantly and looked Lisa in the eye. She looked back at me - there was a hard glint in her eye now. She was changing: I could see it, I could sense it. She stood up.
"You are a whore," she said. "Nothing but a whore. You're not a teacher: you're a pile of fucking stinking shit. What are you?"
"I'm a whore. I'm a pile of fucking stinking shit."
"Put your hands on your head, you whore!" I did as she said. "Stay there. Don't move till I come back. You piece of filthy, ugly shit."
