Aching to Submit (2 page)

He exhaled a loud breath. “All right, Soph,” he said aloud, baffled as to how to proceed. He stripped off his clothes and headed into the bathroom for a quick shower before bed. It was Wednesday night. He wouldn’t get home until late Friday night. He considered his options, but there just weren’t any. The Parisian clients were important and they trusted him. They’d almost lost the account a few weeks ago and the relationship was too delicate to hand over to someone else at this point in time. He had no choice but to wait it out. This weekend he’d talk to her and if he had to, he’d force her to talk to him. He wanted his wife back again—he wanted all of her. And he wasn’t going to let her get out of it this time.

The next night, Sophie stepped off the tram and began the now-familiar walk to the club. She’d been doing this for weeks and tonight, she was determined to go inside. She was through feeling ashamed, through trying to pretend to be ‘normal.’ What the hell was normal anyway?

Michael is normal.

Guilt slowed her step.

“No,” she said out loud, forcing herself to walk on toward the club. Maybe what was behind the doors of this club wouldn’t be what she was searching for anyway. Maybe she could then cross it off her list and go back to her husband having realized it wasn’t what she’d wanted after all. Wasn’t what she’d fantasized about for as long as she could remember.

But what would it take for her to do that? She couldn’t face the fact that in order to know, she’d have to experience it. But if there wasn’t sex, if she didn’t actually…

Nope, she wasn’t going there.

“One step at a time, Sophie,” she encouraged herself as she crossed the street and stepped up to the front door.

The same man who’d stood at the door every other night stood there now. She met his eyes with a bravery she didn’t feel. He looked at her for a moment, his expression unchanging as he spoke something into his earpiece. As her courage began to crumble, he nodded. She wasn’t sure if it was at her or whomever he’d spoken to, but he opened the door for her to go inside and wished her a good evening.

Sophie’s heart was in her throat. She’d done it. She’d walked inside. She now stood in the dimly lit alcove where, in addition to the soft lighting overhead, candles burned, the wax that had melted then solidified over and over again lending a look to the place that was pure Goth. Soft music came from behind the heavy, dark velvet curtains, along with the muffled sound of speech and other things. She swallowed, turning to look at the closed door behind her.

“
Goedenavond
,” came the girl’s voice from behind the coat check.

“Oh, good evening…
goedenavond
.” She was grateful she’d been practicing the basics of the language.

The girl said something else which Sophie translated into ‘may I take your coat’ and she nodded, slipping her long wool coat off her shoulders and handing it over. She didn’t miss the fact that the girl looked her over from head to toe. She blushed, knowing she was likely not dressed right.

Without a word though, the girl took her coat and handed her a ticket. She then gestured across the way where another girl sat behind a very large desk watching. Sophie walked across, noticing how her steps fell in time with the sound of what was going on just on the other side of those curtains. Although her legs weakened a little, she wouldn’t allow herself to turn around and go home. This was the farthest she’d come and to leave now would be more than a little humiliating.

“
Goedenavond
,” she said to the girl at the desk who, just like the one at the coat check, looked her over from head to toe. Sophie smoothed her dress over her belly, noticing how her hands trembled, how her heart thudded against her chest. She’d worn a knee-length, sleeveless black dress with a plunging back along with high-heeled black boots that came to just above her knees. She wore no stockings and she’d piled her long dark hair on top of her head to accentuate the length of her slender neck and show off the curves of her naked back, her alabaster skin a stark contrast to the black of her dress. She stood a good 5′5″ in her heels, but compared to the average Dutch woman, she wasn’t tall.

The girl said something and she had to ask her to repeat herself. If she paid attention, she could understand a lot of the time, but it was still work.

The girl repeated her question, which Sophie translated to whether or not she’d been here before and if she had a membership.

“No, it’s my first time,” she answered in English, both embarrassed she couldn’t carry on in Dutch and hoping the girl would continue in English. Most of the people she’d met here did speak English fluently or almost so. The feeling she got from this girl, however, was that she perhaps didn’t want to as she carried on in Dutch, asking for her identification.

She handed her driver’s license over, assuming she was checking for age, but when she began to enter the information into her computer, Sophie panicked. She hadn’t expected this. She just wanted to pay the admission price and walk inside undetected, slip into the shadows, and simply observe.

“Do you have to take my information? Can’t I just pay and go inside?” she asked.

“You can’t enter if you’re not a member,” the girl said in perfect, unfriendly English, never once taking her eyes off the keyboard as she continued to enter information. Sophie didn’t know what to do, but before she could do anything, the girl handed her license back and told her the amount. She put her license back inside her wallet and withdrew the funds, but the girl shook he head.

“Pin only,” she said.

The Dutch had a banking system where people used a pin card—essentially a debit card—for almost everything. Some stores didn’t even take cash, but Sophie had not thought about that for this place. It hadn’t even occurred to her. If she used the pin card, Michael would see where she’d been on their bank statement. There was no way he’d miss it.

“I don’t have a pin card yet. I’m new here and don’t have my BSN.” A BSN was the equivalent of a social security number. You needed that to do anything and as she said it, she realized the girl would know she was lying. She wouldn’t have been able to get her driver’s license without the BSN.

“You know what, I’m just going to go,” she said, flustered, at a loss for what to do.

The door behind the desk opened and a man stepped through. He looked at Sophie and she imagined her expression gave her away. “Is there a problem, Afke?” he asked the girl at the desk in English, breaking eye contact with Sophie.

The girl answered in Dutch, but it was too fast for Sophie to pick it up. The man said something back, looked at the screen, and turned to Sophie.

“American?” he asked, coming around the desk.

She nodded, unable to speak. He stood just inches from her and extended his hand.

“I’m Kyan van de Brink. I own the club,” he said.

She took his hand. It was large and warm in contrast to hers, which was clammy now from what had just happened. In fact, she could feel sweat under her arms and her face was flushed. She wondered what she looked like to him, feeling like a fool, an inexperienced, naïve fool.

“I’m Sophie,” she offered, leaving her last name out.

He accepted that and shook her hand once. “Welcome to L’Opera, Sophie.”

“I wanted to pay with cash. I’m sorry, I didn’t understand,” she offered, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

“Not to worry, you’re my guest tonight. And I’m certain Afke will be more welcoming the next time,” he said, glancing at the girl who was now throwing daggers at Sophie. “Won’t you, Afke?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” she answered, again in English.

Without a word, he parted the curtains and guided her inside. His fingertips, although light, were still electric on her bare back. “Are you visiting Amsterdam?” he asked as he led the way to a small round table with a ‘Reserved’ sign on it.

“No, I live here. Moved just a few months ago.”

“For work?” he asked, offering her a seat.

She looked up at him. He was an attractive man, late thirties she’d say, with the typical Dutch blond hair and blue eyes. He looked to be just a little older than Michael.

Michael. God, what was she doing?

“Yes,” she answered his question, breaking eye contact. It wasn’t entirely a lie. They had moved for a job—it was just that it was for Michael’s job.

“How are you liking the Netherlands, Sophie?” he asked, just as a waitress came over.

“It takes some getting used to,” she said.

He smiled as if he understood. “Glass of wine?” he asked.

“No, just water. Thanks.”

“It will help you relax,” he said.

“Okay,” she nodded and he ordered. Sophie took this time to look around at the scene before her. The club was not large, but it was, as with a lot of buildings in the city, bigger than it looked from the street. If there had been any walls, they’d been removed and replaced by ultra-modern steel support beams—the only things modern in the space. The lighting was dramatic and romantic with plush, old-world furnishings and… other equipment. Tables were scattered here and there and there were bars at both ends of the room. At the farthest end from where they sat was a stage. Not a high one—it was more of a platform—and on it stood some equipment Sophie couldn’t identify, although she’d certainly seen things like it in her online searches of late.

As far as dress, she was definitely out of place. The women were either completely nude or wearing clothing she couldn’t even imagine owning, much less wearing. Some men were dressed in suits, some with shirts off, but all wore more clothing than the women. She caught the images of a few scenes that were playing out, but was too embarrassed to watch, even though there was nothing she wanted to do more.

“First time at a club like this, yes?” he asked as the waitress returned to put two glasses of wine down before them.

She turned to him. He was watching her intently, but there was only kindness in his eyes. She didn’t feel uncomfortable with him. Didn’t feel like he wanted something from her. Something she wouldn’t give.

“Yes,” she said.

He smiled and lifted his glass to her. “Well, here’s to the first time,” he said, taking a sip. “I still remember mine and wish it had been at a place like this one.”

“Why?” she asked, not sure how to behave, what to ask, what not to ask. “Sorry,” she began. “I shouldn’t… that was maybe too personal.”

He shook his head. “Nothing is too personal. If we don’t share our experiences and help each other, we’ll never be able to fully find and accept ourselves.” He smiled again.

“I’ve walked by here so many times I can tell you every nick, every pothole on the street!” she blurted out, exhaling, then taking a large sip of wine.

He smiled again, even as she was embarrassed by her simple comment. “You’re not alone, Sophie. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Thanks.”

“I want to ask you a question and I want you to be completely honest when you answer me.”

Her face grew very serious and she nodded. With all the lies she’d told lately, would she even be able to tell the truth anymore if she tried?

“Why are you here? Do you know what you’re looking for?” he asked.

She searched his face, feeling her own crumple, wishing she was better at hiding her emotions. She picked up her glass and looked at her bare ring finger. She touched the place with her thumb, losing that little bit of confidence she’d mustered up to walk in the door in the first place.

“I’ve never done anything like this and…” Her eyes filled with tears, but she forced them back. What was she doing? How far was she willing to go? “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to answer you.”

He put a hand on hers and squeezed for a moment. “Look at me,” he said.

She smiled a nervous smile, but it faded quickly when she looked at him.

“No shame. I won’t judge you and I’ve stood in your shoes once,” he said. “You don’t have to do or say anything you’re not comfortable with and you don’t have to feel any obligation to me.” He stopped after that point.

She understood and nodded, grateful.

“Would you like a tour of the place?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she answered, relieved.

He stood and she followed. “L’Opera has been here for three years,” he began. “It’s my baby, I suppose. I wanted a safe place that offered something different, something more specific than many other clubs in Amsterdam at least. This is the main area. It’s open, as you can see, so any play that’s done here is public.”

“What do you mean by specific?” she asked, although she had an idea. Her eyes scanned the scene around her: some people sitting at tables talking, some wrapped in soft blankets drinking from bottles of water as they were held, others in the middle of play. As she took it all in, she thought she might understand what he meant by specific.

“L’Opera is what I’d call a boutique BDSM club. It’s small, first of all, and it will remain small. Most of the members are more like family to each other and that’s my goal, to create a community—an accepting, open community. As you probably know, everyone’s kink is unique. L’Opera caters to couples mostly. Couples where the male is the dominant partner and the female, the submissive.”

“Which explains the dress, or lack thereof, of the female half of your… guests.”

“Exactly.”

“But if you allow only couples in, committed couples, why did you let me in?”

“People who end up here have been around the scene for some time and they’re searching for a safe place to play and meet others without the… random taste-tester off the street who has read
Fifty Shades of Grey
and thinks this is it.”

Her eyes once again scanned the room.

“Everything that’s done here is done with consent,” he said, watching her.

“I understand that. It’s just so… unreal.”

“Here it’s very real. But to finish answering your question as to why we let you in, you apparently didn’t strike John, the man at the door, as random.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. So maybe he’d noticed her circling the block after all; she’d just been unaware of it.