“My fantasy since I was a small child was to dominate a dominating man,” Beverly explains. I found the idea of chaining a man up so exciting.” Beverly first saw Sleeping Beauty when she was five or six, but the beautiful princess was of no interest at all to the little girl: “I was fascinated when the queen chained up the prince when he came to find Sleeping Beauty. An afternoon worthy of Fellini.īut it began with Disney. Beverly, who briefly trained on the tightrope in South Africa, mounted the beaming man last, standing on his bare back, riding crop at her side in case he slowed down. Now, naked, barrel-chested, on all fours, his genitals tied with weights, he was outfitted with a leather bridle, bit, and reins, specially made for him by a saddler-“not one of those cheap sex-shop toys,” says Beverly-and ridden, one by one, by each member of Madame’s petit clan, her close circle of dominatrix cohorts of whom she is “chief Queen.” Hierarchy is all, democracy is naught, in this world. Ever since he was a young man and worked as a groom for a beautiful, rather severe woman, he had aspired to be her horse. The park is also the setting for other bucolic events-like the warm summer afternoon when, under Madame’s instruction, a local woodcutter fulfilled his lifelong equestrian fantasy. In summer, Madame and Beverly occasionally picnic in a little white-and-green rowboat, while in winter the ponds freeze over and the ladies ice-skate on them. The back door of Beverly’s cottage opens onto one of two enormous ponds that frame the vast back gardens of the château. She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants, with either or both, according to her pleasure-and her pleasure is also my pleasure.” When I ask what she will do when Catherine dies, she starts to cry. “I have given myself to her, body and soul. “Catherine is my secret garden,” she says quietly when I inquire about the nature of their intimacy. Like her dressed in leather and boots, and me, chained, dangling from the rafters.” She roars with laughter while I wonder just what exactly does go on between them. “They talk about me as Catherine’s ‘sexual slave.’ When I imagine an older woman and a younger woman and the term ‘sexual slave,’ the pictures that get conjured up in my mind are grotesque. “There is an awful lot out there about us that is wildly inaccurate,” she says. I climb the stairs to the main entrance, where I am greeted by a tiny lady wearing a white scarf wrapped stylishly about her head, slim white cotton trousers and blouse, and a fluffy, sage-green mohair cardigan.
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At its turn, the 17th-century Château du Mesnil-au-Grain sits in full glory and perfect symmetry. An enormous horseshoe drive embraces a vast green field dotted with thousands of yellow buttercups. A sharp right and we are thrust instantly into a Louis XIV fairy tale.
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The driver finds the concealed turnoff, and I see the white gate I was looking for. “Madame is doubtful,” I was told, “but said she will think about it. I was told “no one observes, there are only participants.” I replied-what the hell-that I was willing to participate, imagining that I might be given a candle to hold in a doorway. I had asked in an e-mail a month earlier if I might observe one of Madame’s sadomasochistic rituals.
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The address I have been given is so abbreviated as to be comical: no numbers, no street, no postal code, just the name of the château and the province in which it resides. I have been invited to dinner and don’t want to be late. It is a gray but bright day as the taxi drives from Paris through the lush green fields of Normandy. I am going to meet the most famous dominatrix in France.