3. SM-First-Contact

The entrance steps of DSM4 led to a short, almost completely dark passage. I followed Marvella through this and into a space that was only marginally brighter-lit. As we entered, we were met by an impressive apparition that came towards us from the dark far-reaches of the space. It was a human, a female human, twenty-something, just under two metres tall from the bottom of her platform shoes to the top of her immaculately coiffured beehive-hair. She wore just one piece of clothing, a black-rubber-dress that plunged from her breasts down to the tops of her shoes. “Hello, I’m Johanna, welcome to DSM4, and let me show you around” she said in that deep-sexy-Dutch accent we’d begun to get used to.

 What a wonderful greeting, but how did she know we were British? Was it a guess, or was English the default language of greeting. What if we had been Greek, would she repeat the same welcome in Greek, or Portuguese or whatever language we had. The answer is very probably yes as the Dutch speak multiple languages, often apologising that they can only manage four-or-five different ones. We responded, “OK, thanks, I’m Marvella”, and “I’m Andrew”, and we were away on the intro-tour of the premises, all before we had even sat-down or discern anything-much of our surroundings (there were no windows). The three of us were the only people there as it was Saturday lunch-time and had just opened. 

She first walked us around the room as our eyes were adjusting. Photos and prints of fetish-fashions and sex-acts were tastefully framed and displayed on the walls. There was a bar set against the far-wall, and a stage area with a metal-cage next to it. There were small tables and pouffes to sit-on, which we then did. On the tables were SM-and-fetish-magazines, some which were new to us (German, Dutch and Belgian). There was also a whole range of ephemera; flyers, leaflets, adverts for escort services, everything you might expect. Johanna then said “can I get you-two a drink while you look-through the magazines?”. We ordered our usual at that time, a Merlot and a Sauvignon-Blanc. “Sorry, we’ve just got a red and a white”. “OK” we replied (we had been doing so well). 

We sipped the wine, served in unbreakable tumbler-style glasses, and searched for the word to describe the taste – “unpleasant” came to mind. It was from bottles opened the previous day with the cork pushed back-in. As we struggled to get through it, Johanna came-over and asked us the unforgettable question, “do you want to see my dungeon?”. This reminded me of the apocryphal story of nine out of ten economists answering “yes” to the question whether people should accept free money. “Yes” we replied, “that would be nice”. It sounded more like us answering whether we’d like some peanuts with our drinks. We had a lot to learn. It was only much later that we discovered Johanna was already making allowances for us poor Brits, the correct term being “SM-studio”, not “dungeon” (though the word “dungeon” does get the juices flowing”). 

It was at that point Marvella and I took the subconscious decision on “how to play things”. We were obviously out of our depth, like children being taught to swim at the shallow end of the pool, with water wings strapped to our arms. That’s Ok, we thought. Be ourselves, go-with-the-flow, don’t over-do or under-do our knowledge and experience, be engaging, bright, amusing, but above all, be fast-learners. This was our entry into the underworld, the subculture of subcultures, and we were not going to screw-it-up, and we didn’t. We followed her to some steps we had missed next to the stage leading down to the studio, and descended. Bloody difficult it was too. Dark as hell, no hand rail, with any health-and-safety considerations being a far-away dream, like global peace. How she managed it so well in her platform shoes and pencil rubber dress is still a slight mystery – practice I suppose.

In the dungeon/studio at the bottom of the steps we could make-out shapes which were somewhat familiar from our reading of fetish magazines. There was a St.-Andrew’s-Cross, a Catherine-Wheel, stocks, a Singapore-Sling hanging from the ceiling, and a whipping bench. She took us through the pieces-of-kit, one-by-one, praising the local craftsmen and women who had constructed them. We were beginning to understand there was a shole cottage-industry out-there making this stuff. What did we expect; the local Ikea to provide flat-pack versions of all of these? By-the-way, that sounds like an excellent idea, and we should suggest it to them as an exciting range extension. 

She left us down in the dungeon/studio to explore on our own. I jumped onto the sling, which you have to do kind-of backwards holding the two chains for support. It was very comfortable, much more so than a hummock. We weren’t going to attempt anything more adventurous; it was midday for God’s sake, and we’d never seen anyone else use this kit, let alone try it out on ourselves. Best wait for opportunities in the future when things were busier. After five minutes we clambered-up the stairs and re-joined our waiting drinks. We managed to swallow these in slow sips, not letting the vinegary taste show. Just smile. “More drinks?” Johanna asked. “No, we’d better be going”, to which she replied “then see you tonight when its busy?”. We glanced at each other and nodded “tot ziens, see you later” we said. I could see she was impressed with our tourist Dutch. 

We returned to DSM4 at eight in the evening. We chose eight o’clock as we had no idea of what time one should turn-up to an SM-venue. Six seemed too early, and ten seemed too late (too early or late for what?). Eight was a good compromise. We also attempted to dress appropriately. Luckily, I had a black tee-shirt and jeans, and Marvella had some similar pervy stuff with her. We did our best with what we had. We relocated DSM4, strode confidently down the steps and into the bar area. We were in, and indeed it was busy; not busy-busy, just busy, approximately fifteen people or so, most dressed like us, and some in full fetish gear (leather/rubber dresses, trousers and tops, the occasional chain or two, that sort of thing). They were mostly couples, some same-sex, and the majority were standing with a few sitting-down. 

Johanna was behind the bar alongside another barista. She recognized us, said “welcome back, this is Gerry, and what can we get you?” as she touched the barman. Gerry proved to be another Brit and Johanna’s boyfriend. He was older and shorter than her, but they made an imposing couple. Chastened from the wine experience at lunchtime we ordered two diet-cokes. We then kind of mingled, as you do, against the sound backdrop of soft-trance. The majority of people were not Dutch, and the language spoken was English. However, it was English with accents from everywhere; from the Netherlands, from Eastern-Europe, from France and Belgium, even from America and Australia - cosmopolitan. 

Once mingled, we circled-back to the bar and began talking to Gerry and Johanna as they served drinks. Gerry was a “refugee” from the UK, and Johanna had escaped the Dutch countryside to come to the big-city. After a few minutes another young lady came to the bar and was let through. Johanna threw-on a boa and a light-coat, grabbed her hand-bag, and emerged the customer side of the bar. It was a shift change. She glanced around the room, caught-eyes with one of the punters, and said to him/her “coming Christine?”. She then turned to us, thought, and followed-up with “you two, want to come to the Crypt with Christine and me? I think you’ll fit-in”. She didn’t sound that confident. “Sounds good” I heard myself say, and the four of us were off, down the short corridor, and up the steps to the alley.

We had no idea of what or where the Crypt was, but trusted in our hosts; an amazon and a transvestite – we were in safe hands. We turned right at the end of the alley into the Warmoesstraat, which marks the Eastern-edge of the red-area, before walking along it towards Centraal-Station and out into the main square. It was still light, but the daytime was coming to an end. The city was busy – it was Saturday night, but no-one noticed us or cared. In that unconventional city we looked normal, an amazon in a rubber-dress, a semi-passable transvestite from Tyneside, and two middle-aged tourists, and that felt good. On we went, talking a bit, which elicited the information we were going to a club. Then we hit the Haarlemmerstraat, marched half-way down, and stopped at a church with three spires. We had arrived at our destination. 

The front door of the church was slightly-ajar, just enough to squeeze through. Inside was a young man who exchanged our guilders for four bags for our valuables and tags to reclaim them. It was as easy as that. Little did we know that things were looking-up for the Crypt, and soon it would be members only, and one of the most exclusive SM clubs in the world – posh as hell, with people flying-in for their monthly events from all-over Europe and beyond. We had got in at the beginning, and the only way was up.

 Actually, the only way was down, down winding stairs into the church-crypt. It didn’t take an Essex-tranny to work-out the origin of the club’s name – pretty clear to everyone. Thinking about it now, what good uses can deconsecrated churches be put to? They tend to be protected buildings, but they’re not easy to reuse. A fetish club is an ideal reworking of a church. I’ve seen some be turned into offices, but that’s difficult and expensive. I’ve also seen some turned into climbing-clubs which utilizes their high ceilings. But overall, I think fetish-clubs and party-clubs are the best use, and certainly the most fun. I’m sure you agree. Now, where were we? 

Yes, down the stairs into the crypt. The space we emerged into was lit with candles in glass jars. There were so many of them it was quite easy to see around. Tables had been assembled to form a bar area, and the rest of the visible space was now a dance area, with the obligatory pieces of fetish furniture. It was buzzing even though it was not even ten-o’clock. Marvella and I were completely underdressed compared to the costumes all around us; masters, mistresses, doms and dommes, slave-girls, slave-boys, all in leather, rubber or PVC. No-one seemed to mind much. We ordered a red-wine and a white-wine from the couple “manning” the bar, and were most pleasantly surprised by the question “which types do you like?”. 

The Merlot and Sauvignon-Blanc tasted wonderful. Johanna and Christine took soft-drinks as they looked around for others they knew. We chatted away. The club was run by a family of three generations; we had met the young lad at the top, his mother and father had served us the wine, and there was a sister, and grand-parents somewhere, probably organising the sound-system (trance and techno) or putting away the clothes-bags in a safe area. The Dutch do that – they’re very strong on family enterprises, and this was no exception. It initially surprised us, but why should it have? Sex-and-entrepreneurship can run through families just as a liking for football-and-fishing can, though personally I prefer the sex-and-entrepreneurship combination. 

What did we do then? – mingled of course. What is mingling in these situations? Its actually surprisingly similar in some ways to mingling at a dinner party, not that Marvella or I ever get invited to such things much, or at all really (I wonder why?). So, we navigated to where we could see some action. There was what in the jargon is called a breeding-bench. This is a piece of fetish-furniture where you can comfortably bend over the padded section to leave your bum at an appropriate height for, well, breeding (i.e. for easy “entry” front-and-back). At the same time, it leaves the person availing themselves of this to use their mouths “appropriately”, often as a “warm-up” before “activity” at the back (get the picture, or am I using too many euphemisms?).

In this case there was a lady occupying the bench with two young lads taking turns to service her from behind. As we approached, she struck-up a conversation with us, “hello, I’ve not seen you before”.  She was Dutch, in her thirties/forties, and was very relaxed and matter-of-factish. We started to chat; she welcomed us to her city Amsterdam and the club, and we talked about all kinds of things, all why she was being aggressively “serviced” by the lads behind. It seemed surprisingly natural; we were getting into this. After a number of minutes, a man appeared with drinks, and she introduced him as her husband. The drinks were for her and the boys-behind, who must have been getting quite thirsty due to their energetic activities. 

She then asked if we needed more drinks, and as we were nearly finished with our wines, we placed a refill-order along with two sparkling-waters as it was now getting quite warm. Off he went and after five minutes he reappeared with everything. Very Dutch, very efficient. I suppose we must have been with this little group for about thirty-minutes. It was all so civilized, so natural-feeling, and we had a really fun conversation. She asked us if we were enjoying ourselves, if we would be staying around for a bit, and if we would be back in the future. Of course we were, although it was still so new and strange. In that immortal phrase “we made our excuses, and stayed”. Eventually we broke away. 

Things were getting busier, and people were dancing to the techno. I’m no dancer, but I tried my best alongside Marvella, who most certainly is. We bumped into Christine and she joined us with quite some impressive moves. I decided to leave it to the experts, so after a quick kiss, I retreated to the sidelines and watched. There were lots of places around the lit area where couples and multiples were enjoying themselves, and I sat down where there was some space. I noticed that Gerry from DSM4 had now joined Johanna on the dance floor, and they were very accomplished, almost professional. It still amazes me how you can move so sensually in a tight rubber dress. 

After swallowing a bit more hash I decided to do some exploring on my own. In one of the alcoves there a Singapore-Sling had been set-up and it was already occupied by a young lady, with her wrists and ankles securely strapped to the chains. An older lady, a domme, was in attendance to her, and I was in time to see her strap a ball-gag into the young woman’s mouth. I remember the colour; it was red with black straps. There was a sense of expectancy in the audience clustered around, and I attempted to blend-in, most probably failing. No matter. 

At this point something I had not seen, even in the fetish magazines, began to unfold. The domme went to an airline-type case which was obviously hers and took out some small shiny things. They were nipple-clamps which she then expertly attached to the sub’s nipples, and tightened them. This hardly elicited any reaction although it must have stung a little, or quite a lot actually. Then back to the bag she went and produced something I had never seen before. It was like a metal finger, but bent, with a long finer wire attached at one end. She expertly inserted this into the sub’s vagina, leaving just this wire protruding. 

Back to the bag she went, and took out something that looked a little-like a car’s cd-player in size, with knobs etc. Do you remember cd-players in cars? Of course you don’t, but this was the 90’s. She then pulled from the bag some wires, red and black, and plugged these into her device. Then she attached the other end of the wires to the young lady, first to the vaginal electrode, they to the two nipple clamps. I didn’t know it then, but this was a Tens machine – electro sex. She checked everything like a good electrician would, before turning-up the voltage. The effect was, well, electric.

I now understood why the young lady had been so carefully bound to the sling as her arms and legs involuntary and violently jerked against the straps, and her whole body writhed. Ooops, silly me, a bit too much voltage. She then dialled-down the tension until it was just over the threshold of being intolerable, with her victim occasionally attempting to escape and/or scream. All to no avail of course. This was classic CNC, consensual non-consent, the driving-dynamic between the sadist and the masochist in action. All the time the domme was carefully monitoring things, looking into her sub’s eyes, upping or downing the voltage according to subtle changes in the movement of her body and expression. 

After a short period, probably less than five minutes, the writhing changed in ferocity, as did the breathing. This was no longer just a pure pain response, but also simultaneously a pleasure one. She twiddled the knob a little more, and the writhing peaked before stopping altogether, at which point she dropped the voltage to zero. It was over, an electro-orgasm of astonishing intensity, and was now replaced by kisses and cuddles from the domme. What a scene, and my arrival-time had been optimal to see it all. I felt a certain wetness in my nether-regions as I marvelled at what I had just seen. This was amazing, and certainly not in the tourist brochures. 

As I wandered back towards the light my mind began to meander towards Pavlov’s dogs. After a few sessions like this anyone would have the pain-and-pleasure emotions so intertwined that pain on its own could trigger the pleasure. Perhaps this was part of being a sub. Any sexual excitement derived from the boy-next-door would seem very vanilla, and perhaps you would need therapy to recover those sensations, if you ever wanted them retrieved. It was only much later that I learned that many erotic-masseurs and corrective-therapists do have professional qualifications. How scary-amazing is that? 

Back in the dance area Marvella saw me and came over with Christine. I told them what I had just stumbled into, and Christine said in her Tyneside accent, “oh, that’s Madame-Electra”. “And the young lady?” I asked, “Could be anyone” she/he replied. We discovered later Madame-Electra was a professional who had lots of “friends”. Andy Warhol said everyone should have fifteen minutes of fame, but in this case, it was just five, and only for the girls. It was Saturday night and the hottest place in town, attracting the crème-de-la-crème of the talents. The entertainment was free, but you had to wait your turn. 

The three of us then circulated around, looking-out for any scenes that might be happening. The fetish-kit was now being heavily used, and people would peel-off from the dance-floor to use the kit or escape to the unlit areas to have sex. After a few minutes we too entered the darkness and found, or more precisely, felt, a bench to sit on. We were all hot and needed to relax-and-recuperate. It was getting later, perhaps midnight, but that was still early in Amsterdam. At this point Marvella and Christine left me for one last session on the dance-floor, and I just took in my surroundings. 

I could see through the darkness one of the TV-screens that had been erected for the event. These were not the modern wide-screens as that technology had not yet been rolled-out. Instead, they were the last generation of tube-sets, all of them showing simultaneously the same artistic-pornographic films. I got engrossed by the sight of one film where a lady, totally naked apart from her stiletto shoes, was standing up with a masked man who was entering her from behind, with his hands caressing her breasts. At the front was a young woman who was kneeling-down and orally-worshipping the standing lady.

This lady herself was looking directly at the camera, her facial expressions mirroring the sensations of simultaneous anal and vaginal sex. Her mouth was open, her breathing measured, and her arms outstretched to the camera as if inviting me to come through the screen, to understand her hopes and desires, her mental-states, her very soul. It was mesmerising, and went on for what seemed like forever, but was probably thirty-minutes. Then this film cut-out and a new one started. I suddenly felt a deep sense of loss, but was definitely feeling excited. Marvella and Christine suddenly emerged coming towards me, Marvella leading Christine by the hand as their eyes adjusted to the dark. 

Marvella kissed me, and said it was time to go. She then gave Christine a quick-peck on the cheeks, and said “I’m sure we’ll meet again”. Then came the killer question, “how do we get out?”. “Follow me” said Christine, and we went deep into the crypt far away from noise and light. Then there was a shape, a human. We exchanged our tags for the valuables and coats we had put into bags. A door was opened, and we emerged into the night from a door at the back of the church. “Veel-plezier” said the ghostly-human, and the door shut behind us. It was a short walk to Centraal-Station and the taxi-rank. We were back in our hotel in minutes. We spoke very little, dived into bed, and had sex, lots of sex. 

The next day, Sunday, we got-up very late, but this was Amsterdam, but the whole town takes time to recover from the night before. Some cities such as London are known for banking, others like Rome for their antiquity, or Paris for culture, but Amsterdam is party-time, however-much the local authorities try to rebrand-and-up-market it. Believe me, even the locals are fully-zonked of a Sunday morning. We wandered towards the centre, through Vondel-Park, stopped-off at a couple of coffee-shops, but did not enter the red-area. On the Skinny-Bridge overlooking the Amstel we stopped and chatted. 

We talked a bit, but nothing deep, and nothing had been said of the night before. We marvelled at the river and the canals leading off it, the boats, and the golden-age-houses, all in the afternoon sun. It was magical, and strangely this place seemed more real than our life back in Barnes in Lonon. That seemed a distant place now, even though we were flying-back the next day. Marvella broke a silence, “we should come-again”. I waited an appropriate instant so as not to sound too eager before speaking “mmm yes, two or three months?”, to which she replied “I was thinking next month, while it’s still summer – I’ll get the tickets”. The show-was-on-the-road, and the adventure would continue. We were both happy, if a little in trepidation.