My Promiscuous Amsterdam

Chapter Two-2

“It’s time we saw a little nightlife,” he announced. This wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.

After signing the bill, he stood up, and helped me to my feet, as another nervous titter of thrill swept my body. I took Jackson’s arm as though I belonged to him. How could I disparage this or feel guilty? Or regret the intimate thoughts we shared? After all, he took on the task of seeing me through the silly battle with my conscience and appeared to want nothing from me but my good company.

Long before my feet hurt from the savage brutality of the shoes, my eyes were numb from seeing so many prostitutes hanging from the windows of de Walletjes. Jackson rebuffed several overt proposals, including a pair of black girls who urged us to join them for a foursome. Jackson was able to wave them off with a congenial smile while they continued taunting us until we were far down the street and nearly out of sight. We watched a live s*x show at The Casa Rosso, which even I thought was pretty tame. A couple of girls made out, rather uninventively, then one went down on a burly fellow dressed in leather chaps. Halfway through, Jackson scooted me out the door and we moved down through the streets again, past several s*x shops that drew my curious attention. I was particularly drawn to ones with leather ware and bondage toys. My body quietly quivered with excitement at first, but as my eyes took in the fetish merchandise, its simmering s****l arousal mutated to sharp, almost angry, spasms. While we casually viewed the displays of cuffs and collars, leather corsets and mean looking floggers, my eyes became lost in the strangeness of these curious objects. I was dazed by how those tools would be used by those who purchased them. This was real, not some fantasy seen in books or on a late-night excursion through Internet porn. I was so close to the functional elements of sadomasochism, that I could even smell the implicit thrill as the scent of raw, animal hide filled my nostrils.

“Too extreme?” Jackson asked as I stared at a mannequin in a pony harness. A bullwhip unfurled across its shoulders.

“For me, yes, much too extreme. But it’s really amazing,” I said a little breathlessly. “Neil would probably think it was demented. What do you think? I mean, have you…” I suddenly felt terribly awkward asking this—and as sober as a librarian. Maybe the wine, which had given me such courage, was wearing off.

“If you’re asking, have I ever bound a woman for s*x? Yes, I have,” he answered directly.

“And, and… something like that?” I pointed to the fantasy costume.

“Nothing quite exactly like that, but I’ve had my moments with S&M s*x, collars, whips, floggers, chains.” He saw my eyes widen; there was no way to cover my unsettled reaction. “Don’t worry, I never do anything to a woman unless it’s agreed on in advance. Fantasy is one thing; this you do with your head as much as your crotch.”

I admired the way he spoke of such private things with so little effort.

As we continued our tour of the Red Light District, images, pictures, s****l propaganda, dozens of kinky icons assaulted my brain with new information. Yes, yes! This was what I needed, a crash course in s****l kink made all the easier to handle because I had a fearless man with no apparent judgment at my side to soothe me. Any anxiousness about the wicked looking s*x toys, the chains, the ropes and the leather shop ponygirl eventually quieted to a dull agitation that resided deep in my belly. I aimed at being nonchalant, just as Jackson obviously was. These were just things, nothing more, I silently repeated. They implied s****l extremes, but they didn’t have to imply anything for me at all. This was not my world. Even that dull agitation began to subside and I began to think that my fears of breaking my marriage vows were groundless. The titillation of the brothels seemed only slight, and the s*x shops were harmless. This big show of s*x seemed harmless—I tried to believe that was true. I didn’t want to be shaken, and I wasn’t, at least not by what I saw.

The end of the evening came too soon to please me, but by two a.m., I was exhausted and my feet were aching so badly that I took off the killer shoes as soon as my feet touched the plush carpet inside the residence hotel. As tired as I was, I felt oddly giddy. At the same time, just walking into the hotel reminded me of what came next. Another fear hit me squarely in the gut. What would saying goodbye to Jackson mean? What would feel like being alone in my room? Our date was over, but was the relationship that formed over dinner, over conversation, over my nervous fears and a city that fueled my lust, my longing and my terror…was that over too?

We walked side-by-side to the elevator, stepped in and zoomed all too quickly, too silently to my floor.

Jackson walked me to my door, where we stood close, his body brushing lightly against mine. The energy between us sparked. I couldn’t look him in the face for fear of his lips moving down toward mine. Would he do that? Would he be bold enough to kiss me? I knew what I would do in return, what I couldn’t help, what I wanted. I refused to take a gamble on that. I slipped out of his delicate, guiding grasp and moved directly over the threshold of the room before I turned around and looked him in the face. We were a safe, easy, rightful distance now.

“Thank you. I’m much relieved.” I managed to lie well.

“Relieved?” he asked.

“Fear just takes confrontation, don’t you think?”

“And you’ve conquered this one?” He looked doubtful.

“Yes, I think so. And I have you to thank.”

“Good. And I can rest assure that Marlena Rowlands can now go about her business undisturbed by the city that luridly curls its finger to its guests.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“And you’ll be posing for your instructor again tomorrow?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Well, yes. I suppose I will. Why not?” I smiled with some confidence.

“Why not?” he repeated back. He then leaned in close letting his lips brush against my cheek. “Good night, Marlena. Sleep well. I’m sure we’ll be running into each other again.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” I answered, again regretting that the evening had to end.

He turned to leave and the only thing I could do was close the door and end the night with a painful, unwanted chill of sadness.

I walked to the mirror in my tiny living room and stared at my face. I stared at the dress and my garish make-up, and the sensual, dreamy look inside my eyes. I could feel the evening move through me, the memories vivid, the meaning still elusive, but the s****l rush remarkable for its unrelenting hold on my physical body. I ran my hands along my hips and my hips moved with the feel of that caress. I sucked in air, while pursing my lips at my reflection and my reflection answered back. My inner muscles squeezed on the emptiness of my cunt, while my desiring cunt pleaded with every body movement for a hand, a c**k, a pair of fingers, a fist…any old thing to c*m on.

I pulled the dress up and over my head, letting it drop to the floor a few feet off. The garter belt was slightly askew and my stockings ripped—that happened in the crowd at the s*x show when I was jostled by bodies crowding in to see the performance. I wasn’t perfect anymore, not prim, sedate or wifely but a vague new someone, though someone I didn’t yet know. She had the blousy hair of a slut, the smile of a woman hawking s*x in a street-side window and the eyes of an animal on the prowl. I loved her…

My hand loved my cunt as much, finding it an easy journey into the slick wetness of my throbbing insides. I danced like a sultry princess for this new mistress and listened to her tell me what to do. Sticking fingers in my cunt, one, two, three, all of them, I wish it might have been my whole fist, but then, that would have been impossible.

So, whose fist would I want? Neil’s? No, he’d never try that. But Jackson’s? Yes, Jackson’s fist. I wanted Jackson’s fist, and his c**k and his tongue, sliding along the petals opening to my womb.

I jabbed myself harder still, until it hurt. That hurt was inspiration.

Leather, collars, chains, wild scenes of women whipped and taken, entered my thoughts in vivid depictions. Neil stood off to the side silently appraising me, while Jackson was there with his lips at my ear, whispering invitations and instructions. I rubbed my clit, abrasively hurting the potent thing. I f****d myself with ramming fingers. For a time, I kneaded my breasts, squashing them, pinching them, kissing them as I raised the soft, pink flesh to my lips. I bit the skin while eyeing the action in the mirror and practicing a s****l tease I planned to do for some man. Neil. No, not Neil. He’d never understand. But Jackson, yes I could do it for him.

Back to my clamoring cunt, a few gentle thrumming movements across the anxious little clit, and the crescendo of pent-up passion smashed through my belly in great spasms. I heaved savagely against myself, jarring loose desire that had been swimming through my mind and body for days. My trip through de Walletjes hadn’t quelled the inferno; it only amplified its restless power.

As my climax peaked, my liquid slid down my thighs and drenched my hand. A cawing mewl, a plaintive animal cry broke the heavy-breathing silence with its sad and desperate noise. Then, hardly aware of what my ravished body was doing, my knees buckled from under me and I slipped to the floor, beyond the gaze of the slut in the mirror, away from the eyes, the hair and the feral look of the new woman.

With the climax over, maybe she’d go away and leave me with less of a burden to bear. I could only hope, I thought, as I slumped against the small wood chest, seeking the strength I needed to get up and forget that this m**********n ever happened.

If it hadn’t been for Jackson’s enormous presence in my fantasy, I would have been fine. If it had been Neil’s image there, even better. If it had been a phantom man, not a real one, that would have done almost as well. But clearly, it was Jackson influencing my desires with the calm, the reason, the calculated planning of the night and that strong, surging dominant force that could have me in its grip with little effort.

I could not let him know this, I decided as soon as that thought appeared in my weary brain. Never!

***

I modeled for Roelf the next day—just as he expected me to. Since he obviously had some strange hold over me, I played his game again, although this time, determined to be more confident and less like the sexually naïve American. I pretended I was one of de Walletjes’s mannequins, inert, expressionless, eyes drilling the carpet, the walls, the ceiling, wherever Roelf aimed them. His desire to pose me in lewd positions continued from the previous day—everything short of a straight-on crotch shot. His theory seemed to be that if you were doing erotic art, the artist needed to leave something to the viewer’s imagination. But there was little left of me to imagine.

Tits. Ass. Asshole. p***y lips. The feathery hair at my cunt. My underarms. The nape of my neck. Roelf focused his students’ attention on body parts, not often the whole of me.

I bent over. I squatted. I curled up like a fetus. I even let Roelf’s assistant lock handcuffs around my wrists. On another day, he’d even clamp my cuffed ankles to a hoist and lift them high over my head, while leaving my shoulders resting on the hard cushion of an old mattress. But that was some days later.

Roelf didn’t give compliments to anyone in his studio, least of all me, his lowly model, but he did say to me after my second day posing something I would not ever shake. It came out smugly, like everything else that came from his mouth. “You’re amazingly compliant.” He looked for my reaction. “You must make some man very happy in bed.”