This Little Domme Went to Amsterdam

When I was younger and my mind roamed to matters of a sexual nature, I always felt something was missing. Television and movie love scenes couldn’t be all there was, could it? My parents had been divorced, and in raising me, my mother was tasked with a lot. I was a willful child, precocious and stubborn in every way. She tried her best to ensure her daughter would remain virginal till marriage and to bend me to her will in assorted other ways. While she was strict, she still had her piles of ancient Penthouse Forum magazines in the basement, which I read when I dared. The stories detailed a decadent exploration of eroticism right before my young eyes, and I realized there was much more out in the world than merely mainstream pursuits. As I got older and entered high school, there were pleasant enough encounters I had with boyfriends, but nothing ever approached the fevered pitch I’d envisioned in my fantasies.

My plan was to get light-years away. Once high school was finished and college still months down the line, I was ripe for an adventure. My friend Chloe was, of course, on board. Instead of spending the summer innocently traveling Europe by train, as we’d told our elders, we were actually going to spend the entire summer living in Amsterdam. We joked that if we ran out of money, we could always find day-labor work planting tulip bulbs. As Fate had it, we didn’t have to get our hands very dirty at all!

Weaving through the narrow streets of the Red Light District dazzled me. Behind glass, women of every nationality and novelty displayed themselves in the District’s rows of doorways. Outside a house of domination, Chloe and I paused to gawp at the pony-training spectacle in the front window. Private kerkers were available, but this domme thrived on playing to an audience. As her sub was led through his paces, an unsavory gent behind me in the crowd decided to stroke my hair. I had the presence of mind to slap him, a crack that echoed. A domme who was lingering at the door got security involved and steered me away while he was dealt with.


My savior’s name was Mila, but her clients called her Majesteit: “Majesty.” And she was! A regal, Titian-haired skyscraper of a woman with an attitude like no one I’d ever met. Wicked-tongued and spectacularly dressed, sensual and depraved, Mila to me WAS Amsterdam.


“You come get a drink for your nerves,” Mila insisted, herding Chloe and me to the bar on the second floor. It was a bar we began to frequent often, soaking up the tales spooled out by the various dommes between clients. Mila, in particular, fascinated me. It turned out that Chloe didn't take to the BDSM scene the way I did and opted for working in a coffeehouse; however, I spent the ensuing days in Mila’s company as she pontificated on female superiority and familiarized me with toys and leather goods. When she laced me into my first corset, I felt invincible.


Mila saw something in me. Perhaps she found my curiosity charming enough to keep me around, for my willingness and wonder made me quite the apprentice. I served as an extra pair of hands during her sessions, and the men went wild. In no time, the house manager was calling me Beetje Koper: “Little Copper.”


That was the name I used when I got a job in the peep show next door to Mila’s kerker. My big adventure got grander.


The booths were large enough for a single futon mattress and a small night table, no more. The floors were elevated, so as we girls reclined on our futons, the patrons’ cocks were at pussy level on the other side of the glass. A phone and a tip slot were mounted on the wall. Tokens deposited by anticipatory fingers made the curtain rise for a precious sixty seconds of sin. Mirrors adorned the ceiling so we could watch ourselves get off again and again.

Many customers knew English, but some did not. I worried about the language barrier, but Mila said, “Beauty is a universal language. Make them speak your name!”

My trademark besides my long russet hair was that I always wore stockings and fingerless gloves. Lingerie was fresh and new to me, as dealings with high-school boyfriends hardly warranted elaborate outfits. Here I wore body stockings, bustiers, and boots borrowed from Mila. The fishnets that encased my long legs and the buckles on my bustier were my idea of a uniform!

Patrons may have been there for a show, but they were the ones entertaining me. Men sucked off other men while I watched. They stripped naked and came on the glass right near my pussy, then licked it off. They wore women’s teddies beneath their clothes. I placed my stockinged feet on the glass, and they worshiped them sans the ability to touch.

The true pivot in my thinking took place when Mila lent me her bullwhip for a shift. Since our booths weren’t the roomiest, she demonstrated an adapted way of flicking the cracker to the glass in the spot where the patrons’ balls would be. I marveled over the braiding and craftsmanship of the whip, by its very nature a viperous tool. It’s where leather took on a whole new meaning for me, and I think Mila recognized that, too. She left me to my devices with a wink.

My night was full of fire. With inborn confidence enhanced by Mila’s coaching, I strategically hit the glass, “spanking” clients’ balls as they spanked them for real on the other side. I mimicked twisting nipples, and they turned theirs around like taffy. Within the four walls of my booth, I indulged in every whim, every notion I could think of. Did I want to make some eager patron finger his ass tonight? Or perhaps whimper a nursery rhyme as he stroked his cock to the tune? The pleas of a sub as he reached his limit titillated me. And still do!


Make no mistake—I may have come to Amsterdam a wildling, but by the end of vacation, there had been a paradigm shift in my sexuality. No longer did I tolerate anything but the very best of efforts being brought to the table. Returning to the States with my secret summer in the front of my mind, I smiled at Chloe as the plane landed and thought, it doesn’t stop here.

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