The Dominafuhrer - THE GODMOTHER

Episode 5 - Not So Wonderful Copenhagen

Copenhagen June 1955

Barely two hours later, he was no better, swaying between Kelly and me as we grasped his arms with one hand and waved off the taxis taking Jimmy and Sugar, Stiletto and Solitaire, Sapphire and Natalya and Tom McGiver to Schiphol Airport so that they could catch their flights to their respective destinations. The newlyweds were honeymooning in the West Indies, the girls were going home to South Africa, Natalya was booked for a Tennis Tournament in Paris and Tom was going back to New York on his own. Miss Spiteful sniffed when she saw the state that David was in and took a taxi on her own to Centraal Station leaving us to follow on with her luggage. She remained silent as my lover and I loaded my husband onto a train for Hannover and I bribed an attendant to make sure that David was safely delivered onto the train for Braunschweig. There would be enough of his comrades around to make sure that he caught the British Military Train for Berlin which began its journey there.

After that train pulled out we installed a strangely silent Miss Spiteful on the Cologne train and she momentarily softened to hug and kiss us goodbye. Only when her train had departed did Kelly tell me that our Mistress was spending a few days visiting her parents and some old friends in the area, including Friedrich and Heinz, none of whom she had seen since the end of the war.

“She’s feeling guilty about not having been back before,” Kelly confided. “I know that she regularly sends money to them all and every now and then she’ll drink too much wine and get emotional about her early years in the Ruhr. That’s stupid.” The catch in Kelly’s voice told me that there was more in her own past than she had told me.

Now it was our turn to find a taxi to take us to Schiphol in time for our flight to Copenhagen. We arrived at our hotel in mid afternoon, unpacked and strolled across Radhuspladsen and along Stroget for some window shopping before dinner in a restaurant on Hojbro Plads. Well fed, slightly drunk again and very tired, we went to bed, made slow love and then slept soundly till morning.

Our reason for visiting Copenhagen was an appointment with an eminent Danish Surgeon at his consulting rooms, who patiently listened to what we both desired. He got quite excited for a little while making notes and sketches on his pad, raising our hopes, and then sadly shaking his head. He told us that the type of sex change operation that we wanted was not possible and, at present, he could only offer what was no more than a castration with a small opening left to permit the passage of urine. Penetration by a penis would be limited, we would not experience any pleasure and the risk of infection would be high. Despite our ability to pay any price, he said that surgical techniques had not yet developed enough to give us vaginas that would take an erect penis and retain the nerve ending that generated pleasure during sexual intercourse. His advice was that, if anywhere, the breakthrough would come in the United States where, what would be called micro-surgery was being experimented with. The only problem was that prudish public opinion there frowned on such advances being used for sex-change operations and the Surgeons would only admit to be working on reconnecting severed limbs and correcting urology problems. He gave us the names of Surgeons in Chicago and Los Angeles and advised us to make contact because, within a few years, either of these men might be able to fulfil our dreams.

Disappointed and depressed we wandered through Copenhagen discussing what we could do to cheer ourselves up and decided to see what the City’s S and M scene could offer. Folded currency passed to the discreet Hotel Concierge arranged a taxi at the side entrance after dinner, so that no one would see us leave in our outfits, and an introduction to a club off the Vesterbrogade. More money gained us entry and we clattered down a metal spiral staircase to the Bar, Dance floor and Dungeon otherwise known as the basement. 

We had been assured that this was the best club on the scene in Copenhagen but, like the city itself and even allowing for the post war years, I found it seedy and disappointing. Still, the room was big enough, a small band was playing, there were some items of dungeon furniture and there were plenty of patrons although the costumes and uniforms were unexciting.   

We surveyed the scene for a few moments and the band stopped playing and every head turned in our direction.

“I think that they have seen us,” I whispered. I’ve got to admit it that it was probably Kelly that they noticed first. A tall, leggy and beautiful blonde in a one piece white leather corselet, long white leather gloves, white leather high heeled boots and black stockings attached to white suspenders had to get everyone’s attention. I was in my usual black leather halter, short leather skirt, black stockings and suspenders and black leather boots and gloves but I didn’t feel any envy at their admiration; I would be the one who went to bed with her tonight. We sauntered towards the bar, swinging our whips and the spell was broken. The music started up again and the males charged to the bar to be the first to buy us a drink. We didn’t have to get our money out again while we there and the line of glasses on the bar, waiting to be consumed, matched the line of male and females waiting to be beaten and tortured by us both.                  

Most of what next has now faded to a blur because we dealt with so many victims but, at one point, Kelly and I ran hand in hand to the toilets, passing the queue of other couples waiting for a cubicle and, once inside, giving each other a frantic blow-job to relieve our throbbing erections. Some time later, very drunk, with aching arms and sweaty bodies, we staggered out into the cold Copenhagen night air and realised that we had forgotten to order a taxi before the club door closed behind us. This was not the most salubrious area of the city and we had a least a half hour walk in our revealing costumes and high heels back to the hotel. I began to wish that we had taken up one of the many offers to accompany us but we hadn’t fancied any of the men, or women, as part of a ménage à trois or even quatre.

We set off east, holding our whips like fencing foils as if we were ready to use them to defend our virtues and our purses. The Danes are however, are a polite race and, despite our bizarre appearance, we were virtually ignored by the other pedestrians. That is until we came to a particularly rough looking bar with a crowd of drinkers on the pavement outside. We stepped into the road to avoid them but realised that one had also moved to block our passage. He was a big, swarthy ….. No, he was huge fucking ugly Turk with evil eyes, a long black moustache and tattooed arms like Danish Hams. Bluto, Popeye’s nemesis, came to my mind. He addressed us in a language that neither of understood but we both knew what he wanted. We backed away, moved further sideways, increased speed and brandished our whips but he stayed in front of us and got closer.

“Break and run!” I yelled, but, in a surprising turn of speed, he grabbed us both as we tried to run either side of him.

I screamed for help in English as we both belaboured him with our whips but we might as well have been flicking him with fly whisks for all the effect that they had. My appeal was equally useless; the other drinkers laughed and cheered their comrade on, obviously expecting him to share his spoils, namely us, with them later. We were being dragged, screaming and kicking, towards a dark side alley when the crowd of drinkers were scattered by a strange shape that charged through them and then came in our direction. Our abductor, paused, as puzzled as us but, he suddenly let out a roar, sent us both spinning to the ground and stepped forward to defend himself. As I struggled to my feet, there was a crash, an agonised cry and I was showered with big wooden splinters. The Turk groaned, swayed and then toppled backwards onto the road, the shattered remains of a small bench landing on top of him.

“Run!” a voice commanded and neither Kelly nor I needed any further encouragement. We ran as fast as we had that night in Berlin with armed Nazis after us. This time there was no pursuit but we kept going until we saw the bulk of the Central Station looming ahead of us. We paused under a tall street lamp, clinging to it for support until our chests stopped heaving and our legs no longer threatened to collapse beneath us. It was only then that I realised we were not alone. A man was on his knees alongside us, vomiting in the gutter and making some very disgusting sounds as he did so.

Kelly raised her eyebrows at me but we said nothing as our new companion finished throwing up and then sat back on the kerb, holding his head in his hands and groaning. By the light of the street lamp, I noted his closed cropped hair, smart jacket, neatly pressed trousers, clean open neck shirt and highly polished shoes, despite being spattered with vomit. I had seen many dressed like him passing through the gates of Army barracks in Britain and Germany.

“Are you a British Soldier?” I asked. He lifted his head and I saw his face for the first time. He was in his mid twenties, not particularly handsome, plain but not an ugly brute either.

“Gareth Druce, South Wales Borderers,” he muttered as he tried to focus his red rimmed eyes on us. When he saw how we were dressed, his eyes widened with surprise, delight and something else that I recognised, the desire of the submissive.

“Why did you rescue us and what are you doing in Copenhagen?” I continued, adding a seductive huskiness to my voice and leaning forward to give him a good view of my cleavage.

“I’d been in that bar for a while, listening to that crowd bothering all the women going past and I knew that, sooner or later, someone was going to get attacked. I couldn’t see you but, when I heard you call out in English, I just had to help. I picked up the bench, held it out in front of me and charged through them. I couldn’t let that fat cunt get anywhere near me, or he would have wrung my neck so I just smashed the bench down on his head and told you to run.”

He winced and then leant forward to retch again in the gutter. When he had sat up again and had wiped his mouth, he looked us over again with a speculative light in his eyes.

“The Regiment’s in Brunswick but next month we are going back to the UK. I joined the Army to get out of Wales and where are they sending us? Fucking Brecon! Chapels, choirs and the Pubs closed on Sundays. It’s another fucking cemetery with lights!”

He grasped the lamp post and hauled himself to his feet, the colour coming back to his pallid face and he actually seemed more interested in me than Kelly.

“I’ve done Hamburg and Amsterdam so I decided to use my last seventy two hour pass to come to Copenhagen for the beer…”

“And some excitement?” I finished the sentence for him as I flicked at his crotch with the tip of my whip.

He nodded eagerly and I looked over to Kelly. She nodded as well and then ran into the middle of the road to wave down the first empty taxi that we had seen.

To continue this story, click Our Knight In Welsh Armour

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