11. Work-Life-Balance
Maintaining the correct balance between your work and social life is critical for all of us, as it is for any successful IT-consultant enjoying an Amsterdam SM lifestyle. However, we all get this wrong on occasion, and this was most probably the case when Marvella (my lifetime partner) and I met-up with friends visiting from the UK for a weekend-break, and balancing this with my weekly contracting in Brussels.
At this time in the late 1990’s we had set-up our niche supply-chain IT-consultancy in Amsterdam, with large portions of help from my previous employer, a large US supply-chain-services company (big companies can be extremely nice!). We were finally “going-it-alone”, free to make our own mistakes, which we most certainly did, but to everyone’s surprise except our own, making a success of it. We had secured a rolling contract with a giant US medical-products company whose European HQ was in Brussels, and I was commuting weekly from Amsterdam on the wonderful high-speed railway linking the two cities. Even better, the client was paying for first class trave on the train. Those were the days!
Our lesbian friends from the UK were more from the “old-school” of SM and not so much into the hippy and post-hippy counter-culture of Amsterdam. We had originally met them in a coffee-shop however, which was pretty much the full-extent of their explorations at that time. So, Marvella and I planned a couple of events for the four of us over the weekend, which we hoped they would enjoy.
The first was a visit to VSSM on the Saturday afternoon which was advertising an open session on the “Theory-and-Practice-of-Bondage”, as part of a three-weekly educational program. The next week they were doing “Use-of-the-Whip”, and the previous week it was…actually, I forget now what the previous week was about. Formal bondage lessons from the experts seemed just the sort of thing that our friends would enjoy, and VSSM being very traditional (the Dutch do like their clubs, with committees, special-interest-groups, strict rules etc.), would be a natural fit for them, which indeed it turned-out to be.
We picked-them-up from their bijou hotel near Vondel-park and set off down the canals towards the city centre and VSSM, which had its own premises away from the red-area. We had passed it many times so we knew where it was, but had never entered. Dead-on on 2.00 pm we went through its’ open door. It was bright with summer sun shining through the half-opened windows which overlooked the canal. We were in quite a large room, somewhat cluttered with chairs and tables, with signs on the walls with the messages “No Smoking”, “No Drinking”, and “No Drugs”. I whispered to Marvella “going to be fun then!”.
It was quite full of people, but not the sort of people I was used-to at fetish events. They were mostly middle-aged and looked like they were accountants, teachers, and local-government-workers, probably because that’s exactly what they were! I didn’t recognize anyone, which made me realize in Venn-diagram terms, the old-school and new-school SM communities did not intersect. Then I did recognize someone, a “mumsy” lady in a long, wide, leather dress that reached vertically from her hips down to the floor. She came over and introduced herself in Dutch. She was the boss, and I’d seen her on TV promoting VSSM and its’ goals-and-values on the late-night talk-shows.
Marvella’s and my Dutch was at an early stage of development, and she spoke no English, so she clicked her fingers and her sub found his way to her side, who then acted as a translator. She welcomed our little group into the throng, and was very impressed that our friends had come all the way from the UK for her lesson. Then like a silent hovercraft, she glided to the back of the room where there was various brightly-coloured rope-piles on the floor and a clear-plastic bowl full of similarly coloured clothes-pegs. Subby followed her, and proceedings commenced.
He immediately took off all his clothes and neatly placed over the back of a chair. The boss turned him around to face the audience, and got him to put his arms by his sides. She then selected a white-nylon rope-pile, holding the end in one hand and the rest looped over her other arm, and began (FYI special bondage-ropes are used for this, available from “specialist” suppliers). What she did was similar to knitting in that a single strand, in this case a centimetre wide, was transformed into a complex network of up-and-over crossings, a bit like a very wide-mesh fishing-net. At each stage she explained her moves, which were dutifully translated by subby into English, all in real-time.
Within minutes his whole torso and arms were covered in this net, reminding me of the shockproof-packed honeydew-melons you see in supermarkets. With approximately five metres of rope left the boss changed her routine. The rope was put between subby’s legs and pulled up to his crotch on one side, then looped around and this was repeated on the other side, before being pulled up to his mid-back and put through the mesh. She then yanked the on the remaining two metres, which tightened the ropes around his crotch, and subby let-out a muffled screech.
Then she flashed a satisfied smile, like you do when a challenging task has been completed, before explaining this part of the lesson had almost been completed. She then yanked the rope once more causing subby to screech again, before he translated her Dutch into English. It continued like this as she moved him around through the audience so they could all get a good, close, look. It was firstly a short Q&A in Dutch with an audience-member, followed by a rope-yank which triggered subby’s screech and his English-translation, followed by moving onwards to the next “punter”.
It was at this stage I could control one of my weaknesses no longer; I got the giggles! It was all so serious and clinical, and more like your maths teacher checking your progress, desk-to-desk, during an exam. There was just one solution; the toilet, where I could de-giggle, and put on a straight face before re-entering the fray. This happened three times in fifteen minutes before the boss-and-subby were finished. Our friends looked concerned and asked if I was OK, to which I replied “yes, just keeping something in” (I am a very good at being “economical-with-the-truth” when I need to be!).
Tea and biscuits were then served before the second half, which turned out to be Japanese-rope-bondage. I won’t bore anyone with the details, just needless to say after a few minutes subby was now encased in multi-coloured ropes, head-to-toe, with matching multi-coloured clothes pegs pinching his flesh in all the vital places. It really is too complex to describe here, but these days I’m sure you can find videos on the interned to show you how it is all done. The end result was a bit like a fly caught in a spider’s web suspended in the corner of the room.
Pure bondage is not really my thing; I can’t see the point of it all. It’s a classic case of respecting other people’s fetishes as, who knows, they may think your ones are strange or boring or incomprehensible or whatever. What if you don’t have a fetish? I think everyone does have at least one, male or female gay or straight. I remember a P.A. (personal-assistant) when I was working for a construction company at work, a very religious Catholic lady, saying how “masterful her husband was”, and if that wasn’t a fetish, then what was?
Finally, the boss pulled the magic rip-cord, all the clothes-pegs shot off in various directions, subby let out a particularly loud screech, the ropes fell away, and the lesson was over. Our friends from the UK were most impressed by it all and thanked us greatly for taking them there, and would be putting much of what they saw to good-effect back in the UK. That was nice, but Marvella and I were really looking forward to the second “gig” of the day; going to one of the all-night “pay-and-play-parties” held on the outskirts of Amsterdam; much more our sort-of-thing, and definitely the new-school of SM. We finally all left VSSM, split-up, and went our separate ways to where we were staying, our friends back to their hotel, and Marvella and I to our apartment on the Herengracht.
The parties had wonderful names such as the Wasteland and Europerv, but this evening’s one was Mandy’s, and it was being held at a regular venue in Zaandam, a taxi ride away. The eponymous Mandy ran a sex-shop in the red-area which was very female-focused. It specialized in vibrators, dildoes and strapons, all available in multiple colours and sizes, the largest of which one could only hope were for show, and not for actual use!
After few hours rest and something to eat, we prepared to go out. Getting ready for these parties takes quite a lot of effort as you have to look the part. There are “bitch-queens” who police entry to these events, and their word is final. So, Marvella played-safe with a black rubber-catsuit with short kinky boots and a pervy-plastic mackintosh. The accessories were a micro-handbag for the tickets, some cash, “dancing-pills”, makeup and mobile, together with a “Batman-style” utility-belt from which hung a pair of pink handcuffs, a ball-gag, and her ”whipette”. This was a leather-covered plastic-rod a metre-long, which half-way-down was bent at an angle of approximately ten degrees.
The “bitch-queens” were always impressed by Marvella’s ”whipette” (obviously a very serious “player”!), but was actually caused by trapping it in the taxi door on a previous occasion! I helped Marvella get into her catsuit using lots of talcum-powder and pulling on the robber with all my strength. It was exhausting. Then I finished things with a liberal application of “perv-o-shine” head-to-toe, before buffing her to a shiny perfection.
Playing-it-safe again clothes wise, Marvella chose for me black-stockings, suspender belt, bra and knickers underneath a modern maid’s uniform with apron and head-band; just perfect for her submissive “tranny” partner (FYI there is quite a heated debate in the fetish press over the pros-and-cons of Victorian-versus-modern-style uniforms; the visual-impact, practicality, etc.). This was often my regular clothing at home when “in-service”, so no great palaver in getting ready. That was it: get the taxi, pick up our friends, and off to Zaandam for the night; what could possibly go wrong?
Things started fairly-well as Marvella and I breezed past the bitch-queens on the doors. Our friends got the “once-over” for not being pervy enough, but after a few seconds were let-in as well (my advice for anyone going to one of these events is just to be creative with some chains incorporated into your ensemble). We were in and could relax. I fulfilled my duties by going to the bar for drinks of sparkling-water and Coke for the four of us. There was alcohol available, but Marvella and I had given it after we settled-down in Amsterdam. We knew there would be enough happening being on “The-Scene” without alcohol complicating things; a rare example of us being rather sensible!
We took our “medication”, but needless to say, our “traditional” friends did not participate. Marvella and I had never intended in taking ecstasy when we came to Amsterdam, we’d done all that kind-of-stuff back with other drugs back in the 70’s (and overdid it by quite-some margin), but the kids were having so much fun we just had to try a little, to join in, for “research-purposes” only! As Marvella used to say later to “break-the-ice” at her do’s, “sex-and-drugs, sex-and-drugs, that’s all the kids talk about these days; they should try sex-on-drugs, then they’d be talking!). She does have a way-with-words!
At that time, we were towards the end of our “E” phase; everyone has one, or should have one, but we were having ours in our 40’s and 50’s! It’s never too late though! The only difficulty is that your body isn’t quite as “resilient” as it was in your 20’s; Marvella’s knees were never the same after dancing all night to the techno of Underword at the Ahoy in Rotterdam! As for quality, Dutch “E” was locally produced in the polders, using only traditional-and-sustainable-ingredients (I am joking here), but it certainly could “blow-your-tits-off”. As our supplier used to boast: “the Dutch have the best chemists in the world”, but I’m sure other nations would disagree on this! So, we restricted ourselves to one pill each to fuel the coming wild-night of kinky-chem-sex, and enjoying the simple-pleasures in life!
The space was full; it always was. We mixed, but you couldn’t really socialize, as the electronic-music was for too loud. Not as loud as some places we had been, like the Torture-Garden held in the Ministry-of-Sound in London. They had a sign saying “DANGER, sound levels may damage your internal organs!”, and they weren’t far wrong. Instead, we milled-around, seeing whether any early scenes were playing-out, and generally trying to look cool. Around 11.00 pm the stage-acts started. They were the usual eclectic mix of sex-acts, usually with multiple performers, but always done with artistic flare. The lighting, special effects such as angle-grinder-sparking, and sympathetic techno, all added to the performances.
After midnight things really heated-up on the dance-floor with couples and multiples performing every sane, safe and consensual SM-act you could think-of, and quite-a-few you couldn’t. The kit in-use was also amazing too; high-end sex machines, electric-wands, male and female chastity belts, even gasmask for those with this particular kink. Various fetishes were being enacted. In terms of “dry-sex” there were whippings, bondage, and some specialties.
One was a master from Brussels who was the expert in erotic Belgian-brushing! He had a whole selection of brushes of various sizes and types of bristles which he used to, well, brush his lady-volunteers on their sensitive parts. These ranged from ultra-soft ones used by make-up artists, through thicker ones a deranged Vincent van Gogh might have used, right-up-to to broad ones Harry-the-House-Painter would be familiar with. The sounds the ladies made as he got them into continuous orgasms will always stay with me.
In terms of “wet-sex”, gay and straight couples were having sex, quite often standing-up, but occasionally on the dance-floor itself, though this was uncomfortable to say the least. Anal-sex was always the most popular, with the ladies using strapons on each other, but sometimes with their male partners too. There were also group-sex on quite an industrial-scale.
One of these was a lesbian “train” that at that time was five long, each lady cuddling the breasts of the lady in front, their immaculately varnished-nails in differing shades of red, and somehow still able to walk in synchronisation, like an erotic hoke pokey. Our friends from the UK decided, to join the train for a few minutes, one at the front, and the other at the back, before they found us again. They had obviously done this before.
The three ladies then had a shouted quick conversation which I couldn’t quite catch, before Marvella said to me “we’ve got a treat for you; were going to put you into bondage using our newly acquired skills before giving you a proper whipping”, which sounded fine to me (I think the “E” was beginning to kick-in at that time, and we were both in the foothills of the mountain, before the whoosh that takes you to the summit and converts you into a wide-eyed, shit-faced, incomprehensible jelly-like, ultra-sexy blobs). Time to move fast then, as I removed all my clothes, except my suspender belt and stockings!
We went to the side of the space where scaffolding had intentionally been erected and bondage-ropes strategically placed for anyone to use. These events were always well planned and executed! However, the reality of trussing-me-up was far more difficult than the theory we had received at VSSM that afternoon. One of our friends tried to help, scolding Marvella by saying “didn’t you do knots in the girl-guides?”, to which she responded that she had never been in the girl-guides.
I avoided the scouts as well, instead smoking cigarettes behind the bike-sheds while pretending to do community service. By-the-way, my whole attitude to girl-guides and scouts changed to the positive after that; all those knots and ropes, same sex environments, exposure to exotic uniforms, and taking care of your woggle, all of these preparing youth for the gay and SM lifestyles, and captured in Baden-Powell’s 1908 classic “Scouting-for-Boys”. I rest my case!
After ten minutes the tactics were changed. There were already manacles attached to one of the scaffolding bars by very short chains, and all you had to do was to unclip them, put them around your sub-or-slave’s wrists and ankles, and reclip them. This went very well, and I was ready for that proper whipping. There was just a small consequence to the change-of-plan however; this arrangement, unlike rope-bondage, provides no “give” whatsoever. To me it really felt that you had no control, with the slightest movement being prevented by unforgiving metal, but ultra-sexy for a submissive like me.
A ball-gag was applied, and my whipping began. The three ladies took it in turn, sharing Marvella’s “whipette”. Front-and-back, soft-and-hard, the strokes were applied, but with accuracy, care and respect. By this time, we had quite an audience of over twenty people, one of who asked if he could join-in (you always ask first at these events). No problem. He had his own bull-whip, which hung over his right-leg, Indiana-Jones’ style. These are serious pieces-of-kit capable of inflicting considerable pain-and-damage, and should only be used by expert doms or dommes. At this point Marvella took another pill, announced she was thirsty and needed to wash it down, and since I couldn’t get the drinks, left me in the capable hands of our friends and the audience while she went to the bar.
It then began to get more serious. Now two people were now whipping me simultaneously. Then our friends wandered-off, and there I was, alone with the audience, an “exhibit” or “installation” to be used-and-abused in a free-for-all by the girls and the boys, and they certainly did not hold-back. The pain was increasing and the accuracy decreasing; it was no fun anymore, but this is exactly what CNC (consensual-non-consent) is all about, no good whingeing, and I just had to wait for Marvella to return and end the scene.
I discovered later she had difficulty finding the bar, then got waylaid by some nice young men she just had to dance with. With Marvella, one pill made her dance with the lads, and with two, they danced with her! (she is a natural, the lads always loved being with her). Later she told me she kept trying to remember something important, but didn’t worry too much, it would come back to her. After thirty minutes it duly did; “I’d better check on my tranny”, and she returned, and with a little difficulty, freed me. I spent the rest of the night in the chill-out area recovering while Marvella continued on the dance-floor with our friends.
The plug was pulled on the sound-system at 7.00 am in the morning, Marvella called a taxi, deciding to skip the after-party, and in a few minutes the four of us were back in Amsterdam and ready for a long sleep. When I woke, I could hardly move, and was in pain. I had bruises and marks all over my torso, front-and-back. I could hardly walk, but was due to travel to Brussels that Sunday evening for work. How I made it there was a question of sheer will-power and mind-over-matter. Of course, my client noticed; “you look a little stiff” they said, to which I replied somewhat disingenuously “I haven’t quite mastered Dutch cycling yet, but I’ll mend in a few days!”. It was decades too early society-wise to truthfully-reply “I just slightly overdid-it while being whipped at an SM play-party while off-my-head on ecstasy”, though I was tempted!