Читать книгу The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1 - Emanuel J. - Страница 2

Dolled Up

It was strange. With a pounding heart, Daniel stood speechless in Francis's kitchen. He only wanted to bring her a packet of sugar, because she had lent him one two days ago. It was as though her inquiring gaze penetrated hidden corners of his soul, seeing the images racing through his mind... Scenes in which she exacted obedience from him, dominating him. She was a sociology student, a little younger than him, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and half a head shorter than him, making her of an average height, since he was quite tall. She was pretty with her mid-length golden blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the narrow lips, and the aristocratically curved nose. The silence lasted for seconds, an eternity. What was he supposed to do? Soon the spell would be broken and he would trot back over into his apartment as if this magical moment had never happened.

She pointed to the hanging cabinet above the sink, “Put the sugar in there!”

Confused, he looked at her. It didn’t sound like a request, nor a suggestion, no, it had actually been an order, as if she had glimpsed his desire, and would find it appealing to play the mistress. Was that possible? As if there were no other choice, he opened the door of the cupboard, in which there were three compartments, the lower one filled with coffee filters and bagged soups, the middle one with cooking oil and various types of vinegar.

Again, her voice sounded harsh and commanding, “At the top!”

He had to stretch a little to put the sugar up there between an unopened packet of coffee and a box of sugar cubes. Franziska, wearing tight jeans and hiding her pert breasts under a wide blue sweater, nodded to herself as if a test had produced the expected result. After a moment of reflection, she sat down at the table, which was not covered by a cloth and which stood with its long side against the wall, because there was no better place for it in the small kitchen. A smile spread across her face, almost generous, as if she were ready to grant him a wish. Again, her clear, bright voice rang, with its northern German accent, “You may wash the dishes.”

What? ... The normal reaction would have been to ask her if she still had all the cups in the closet. (She didn't, of course, because two were standing on the worktop next to the sink, even though they weren't real cups, but coffee cups made of thin porcelain.) But there could be no normal reaction because the situation was not normal. Things were different than usual. A feeling of tingling excitement intermingled with the indignation that had risen in him. Franziska was confident, “Don't pretend you don't want it!”

Well, what if she meant it? Wordlessly he turned his back to her (presumably, he thought, he would never say anything to her again, since in her presence he had become but a dumb servant, following orders mutely) and let hot water rush into the stainless-steel sink. There wasn't much crockery, just the two coffee cups, some plates and a some cutlery. The foam rose high above the water, a little less detergent would have done the trick. He leaned the washed plates against the wall, which was tiled white behind the sink, to dry them off, and took care that the rounded run-off surface ridges prevented them from falling over, so he wasn’t left standing in front of shattered plates like an incompetent. His gaze wandered to the glass door, through which a small balcony was visible, and down to a large backyard that served as a parking lot for the inhabitants of the surrounding houses. A gusty autumn wind swept through tops of some small trees, their leaves showing the first hints of yellow. It was half past seven and darkness crept from the sky while the warm yellow ceiling light was on inside. He took the cloth that was hung over the handle of the oven and began to dry, the plates first, then the cups.

“Do you know where my book is?” Isabel stood in the kitchen, Franziska's roommate. She had long dark hair and big brown eyes. She was slightly smaller than Franziska and seemed softer, quieter and more introverted. The fact that she studied business administration didn't really fit her, Daniel thought. Rather, he could see her as a psychology or German studies student, because that seemed more feminine to him, but these were probably nothing but highly dubious clichés. She wore a short blue pleated skirt, a black sleeveless top over her lush bosom, and worn out brown sandals. Astonished, her look flitted from Daniel to Franziska and back again, of course she didn't understand why he was doing the dishes, while Franziska watched him idly.

Her as yet unexpressed question was answered immediately, “It is charming for him to wash our dishes.”

“What? Charming? Wash the dishes? Why don't you help him?” the faintest twang of a leisurely South Baden dialect lilted in her dusky voice. Confused, she played with the pearl necklace that almost always adorned her neck.

Franziska smiled confidently, “He'll be fine.”

Silently, Daniel dried the plate, averting his eyes to avoid Isabel’s questioning gaze. The situation must seem incomprehensible to her and she probably thought that he was not entirely on board. But if she had known what an exhilarating game she was witnessing and her role in it, her judgement would probably have been even more disparaging. Luckily she located her book, lying on the shelf next to the balcony door, loaded with a microwave, a small stereo, pots, pans, a big blue tin can and other random things. Without further ado, she took it and left immediately, making it very clear that she regretted having interrupted this scene.

Glad to be rid of her gaze, he stored the dishes in the cupboards, directed by Franziska, who told him what belonged where, and, without thinking, wiped over the sink after the frothy water had drained away, as he usually did when cleaning.

Franziska was satisfied with him, “You've done a nice job,” he felt like a small child being praised for his virtue. And that’s exactly how her words were meant. He hung the dry cloth over the handle of the oven again and was apparently discharged, for she rose with the regrettable words that unfortunately he still had an awful lot to learn. Her blue sneakers made her steps silent and smooth as she showed him to the door. Was that it now? Some dishes and you're done? He tried not to let on to his disappointment. What did he expect? That his dreams would all come true? Dreams come true in fiction, not in reality. Or do they?

As he stood outside in the stairwell, she smiled promisingly, “Call me tomorrow night, 9:00 on the dot!” Again, it sounded like an order , not a request. Before he could answer, the door was gently pulled into the lock.

As if in a dream, he walked the few steps to his apartment. What on Earth was that all about? Had Franziska really enjoyed giving him orders, or was he reading too much into this strange encounter? Probably she just hadn't felt like doing the dishes and had been happy to find a willing specimen to do it for her. As far as he knew, she was not cold and calculating, but rather warm-hearted and friendly. Perhaps she really did have secret desires that would complement his. However, since he considered this to be about as likely as a visit from Martians, all hope was again lost, bar the tiniest glimmer. Maybe a miracle would happen, but he didn’t believe in miracles.

*

He slept restlessly that night, completely confused by Franziska. And the next day he could hardly concentrate on the story he was writing, his thoughts kept wandering into the kitchen. Nervously, he waited for the evening to come, all the while trying to mitigate his expectations. There was no way she would give him that ultimate excitement, which his imagination played out longingly in the small hours. He would never experience his most cherished fantasy, to be educated by a lady to be an obedient slave. If such a thing even existed, at any rate, it was reported in the relevant Internet forum, which he read more or less regularly. There, however, you could also read how many male subs longed in vain for a mistress who was apparently as elusive as ideas for his novel. And he of all people had found one right next door? No, he still didn't believe in miracles. And yet, his heart pounded more and more nervously as the hand moved closer to the agreed (no, the ordered) time.

Some minutes beforehand he was already pacing restlessly with the phone in hand. A tram rumbled past below and one car after another rolled over the cobblestones of the road. It wasn't exactly a quiet residential area, but he hadn't even looked for one, and at least the apartment was on the second floor of the three-storey apartment building, so passers-by couldn't stare in. At exactly nine he let himself sink into his red armchair and called Franziska's number from the attic. He had already entered the number some time ago, even if it was absurd to call the apartment next door, which could be reached faster on foot than by telephone.

After the second ring the phone was already answered. Had Franziska waited, perhaps even as impatient as he? Her voice sounded delighted, “I'm glad you called.” But the next moment she became a bit cooler, he thought he detected a bossy tone, “And you are commendably punctual.”

Even this touch of severity was enough to stir up a pleasurable tingling sensation in his body, spreading from his stomach downwards. What to do now? How to signal his readiness for the game (if indeed there was a game) without being too forward? “I had no other choice, did I?”

It seemed to work, “No, you didn’t,” a moment’s silence, then a deep breath. “You washed the dishes very nicely yesterday... And you were very good. You want to be good, don't you?”

Well now it was unambiguous, far more unambiguous than he had dared to hope. It took him a moment to collect himself, “Yes, I do.”

“Then you will obey my orders?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Let's give it a try. What are you wearing?”

“A pair of jeans and a sweater.”

“Well... Is your cock hard? Answer me honestly.”

He baulked. No one had ever asked him that before, especially over the phone. What to say? Should he pretend, salve his ego and lie to her, preserve in her some illusion of his masculine power? “No... I guess I'm a little too nervous for that right now…”

He could feel her smile down the phone, “You don't have to apologize for that. All you have to do is get it hard. Open your pants, take out your cock, play with it,” oh, God! How'd she get it? She couldn't ask him to do that. Again, her voice sounded to his ear, very determined now, “You have the choice: Either you do what I tell you, or we end the phone call.”

Was this blackmail? Well, yes, of course. But it was fitting. She clarified the situation by immediately pulling out the big guns, so to speak. The end of the phone call would also mean the end of her game, which hadn't even really started yet (he hoped, anyway). As if she had a remote control, he pulled down the zipper of his jeans with his right hand, while his left held the telephone by his ear, and gently prised his soft dick from his underwear nestle.

Franziska's voice sounded tense, “So what does it look like?”

“I have it in my hand...”

Her relief was palpable. Apparently, she also had an interest in continuing this game, “Fine. Stroke yourself. And tell me when you get hard,” gently he began to wank his cock, stroking his hand up and down the shaft. Never before had he done this on command, never before with the phone to his ear, never before had there been an observer, let alone a listener. But she didn't just listen, she would not remain passive. “What are you thinking about? What scene is playing in your imagination? Tell me. But be honest!”

He inhaled sharply. That was a lot to ask! He hesitated, wrestling with himself. Then he was as honest as she wished, “Well, I imagine... kissing you.”

“What kind of kiss? And where? On the forehead, on the mouth or somewhere else?”

“Well ... I kneel before you ... and kiss your… between your legs,” he struggled to find the right word, not wishing to appear vulgar.

“Oh. You want to lick my pussy? Do you like to give head?”

“Yes, I do... it’s hard now.”

“Really? That was fast,” Franziska's warningly raised index finger was practically visible through the telephone, as if there were no walls between them. “Make sure you do not come! But keep masturbating. Touch your cock, I want you to stay horny. That's what you are, isn't it?”

A small involuntary moan of arousal escaped his quivering lips, underscoring his shameful confession, “Yes, I am.”

“Well at least I know you aren’t lying. But continue. What else is in this porn film of yours?”

“Well... you're wearing something nice.”

“What am I wearing? Speak clearly!”

“A corset. Or a corselet. With suspenders.”

“Oh, with suspenders? Do you like suspenders?”

“Yes, very much...”

Her voice took on the harsh tone of reprimand, “So you think I'll play the doll for you? You must've gotten a little confused. You'll be the doll! Tomorrow night at nine o'clock, you can come to my place. It has already accumulated a lot of dishes... Your entire body will be shaved, very thoroughly and really, everywhere. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And by tomorrow, maybe you'll have figured out how to address me. I'll be curious. And remember, you may not allow yourself to come! See you tomorrow, Daniel,” the connection was terminated before he could say goodbye.

With the feeling that a train had just thundered over him, he put the phone down. Dead silence in the room, disturbed only by the squeaking of a tram, and his quickening breath. It was hard for him to tear his hand away from his throbbing penis. It looked as if he had found a mistress, just behind the door next door, and what a mistress! He would shave his whole body to become her doll. Never before had a woman spoken so condescendingly to him. And that tone stirred him more deeply, excited him more than even his fevered and lustful dreams. This made it impossible for him to follow her instructions. The command was inhuman, and he disobeyed it not once, but twice in a row that night, frantically stroking his inflamed prick and bringing himself to yearning, breath-taking orgasms, spurred on by the tantalizing images in his mind’s eye. But each time he was severely punished by his own gnawing doubts, gasping and damp as the lust subsided. What was he doing? Should he really wash Franziska's dishes again and let her turn him into a “little doll”? Was he out of his mind? If he looked at his activities with the eyes of the “normal world”, then it was shameful, degrading, completely incomprehensible. But the thought of having to address her “correctly” dispelled the doubts with new lust. For the third time, he jerked off, after which he could finally fall asleep ...

*

It took him more than an hour the next afternoon to shave his whole body, only the hair on his head was spared. Half a can of shaving cream went and a whole pack of blades. The shower afterwards felt strange, smooth skin everywhere, as if he was a statue, no, a doll. The word was fuel to the fire of his lust, awakening his desire. His cock hardened anew as he ran his hand over the newly shaven surrounds. It was with difficulty that he pulled himself together enough to avoid yet more frenzied masturbation.

At nine o'clock he stood opposite her at the door, dressed in his best jeans and a white shirt, discreetly smelling of men's perfume. Franziska opened the door fractions of a second after he rang, as if she was standing right by it. She wore jeans again and her sneakers, a thin black sweater, and smelled of a mysterious dark perfume. Her make-up was limited to a pale red lipstick and her jewellery consisted of a few gold bracelets and a gold earring that reminded him of a scaffold (he certainly wouldn't have told her that).

Pleased, she smiled at him, “It's good to see you,” and immediately she had an instruction for him. “In future you will not wait to be let in. You will ring the bell and come right in. We'll leave the door open for you,” that was a nice sign of trust, he thought. But we made him a little suspicious. Did she involve Isabel?

He followed her into the kitchen, where a whole mountain of dirty dishes was piled up on the sink, this time pots and pans as well. And it was all waiting for him. While he filled the sink, Franziska sat down at the table, apparently unwilling to help him with such menial work again. He started with the glasses, some of which were next to the sink.

Behind him he heard the hissing of a bottle being opened a bottle hissing and mineral water gurgling into a glass. For a few moments, everything was silent, then Franziska’s voice sounded, “Did you shave?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, frustrated, “Could you perhaps be a little less monosyllabic and give me specifics? Or do you think I enjoy pulling every word out of you one by one? Let's try again. Did you shave?”

For a moment he struggled to think of what to say, “Yes, I did. And everywhere, just like you said.”

“And where is everywhere?”

Well, everywhere, that would have been the short, but petulant answer. With difficulty, he summoned the words, “I shaved my legs, my chest, my armpits ... and my crotch.”

“So you're as smooth as a doll now, then?” she seemed fixated on the word.

“Yes, I am.”

“Keep it that way. From now on you will shave regularly, at least once a week, without being instructed to. I don't always want to give you an order for every little thing, I expect you to think ahead. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see about that.”

What? He did not question her, since not even half the dishes fitted on the draining board, he first had to dry the glasses, coffee cups and plates with a fresh red chequered cloth, which he removed from the drawer Franziska showed him, before continuing to rinse the dishes.

Outside in the hallway a door clattered and Isabel came in immediately. Today she wasn't looking for a book, but apparently just came to observe. Today she was no longer surprised, apparently in the meantime she had been initiated to the proceedings. She smiled encouragingly at him and turned to Franziska, “It really seems to be working. How convenient.”

“Indeed, but it isn’t easy. There's still a lot to teach him.”

“I have faith in you,” as swiftly as she had arrived, Isabel floated out again in her worn-out sandals.

In silence, he continued to dry, inwardly delighted Franziska's statement that she still had a lot to teach him, because the images this remark triggered were immensely appealing.

She stepped beside him and looked into the water, which had turned into a dark, foamless, greasy soup, in which he scrubbed the burned food from the bottom of the last pan with a scourer. Disgusted, she turned up her nose, “That's bad,” he scrubbed more cautiously so as not to splash her. Smiling, she put her head a little to one side, “It seems you haven't thought about how to address me?”

“Oh. Yes... of course.”

“Then why can't I hear it?”

“Because... I wasn't sure if you wanted me to... I didn't know if you would like it...”

“How am I to know whether I like it or not if I don't get to hear it?” her flat hand clapped his left cheek with a sound before he understood what was happening, and the next moment the back of her hand hit his right cheek. Slaps in the face! They drew a sob from his lips and made him helpless as a child, but they created no indignation in him, no horror either, only deep reverence. She smiled warmly at him. “Do you think I'll still get to hear it?”

“Yes ... my mistress.”

“There we go, that wasn’t so difficult. It's a nice form of address. I want to hear it from now on forever ... But not in connection with the inappropriate you. I want you to address me in the second person plural, as is appropriate for a mistress. Do you understand me?”

Really? She really wanted that? She seemed to be more familiar with the role of mistress than he had thought, “Yes...”

She looked at him in amazement, “You know? Oh, yes, you're a writer,” again, her hand smacked his glowing face and her bracelets quietly clinked against each other. “You should always remember how to address me. Now tell me if you want to be an obedient slave to me in future.”

Oh! She called him a slave? And now he really had to address her like a monarch? As strange as it was to finally say these words, they came from the bottom of his heart. “Yes, my lady, I will be an obedient slave to you.”

She listened, pensive, and murmured back in a tone barely audible, “I didn't think anyone would ever say something like that to me,” if she was acquainted with the role of mistress, then it was obviously more in theory than in practice. This was the beginning, for her as much as for him. She gently stroked his cheek, reddened from her blows, then her fingers lay against his lips and she watched him thoughtfully as he tenderly kissed her. Again her murmur was more to herself than to him. “I am curious to see whether such an education really works,” two of her fingers pushed themselves into his mouth, curved and spread out provocatively, fuelling his barely contained lust, and he sucked greedily on them like a toddler on a pacifier, his cock hardened while he scrubbed the last burned remains from the bottom of the pan.

Only when he lifted the last pan from the water did she withdraw her fingers, wiping them on his glowing cheeks.. Franziska sat down again at the table to watch him dry the rest of the dishes from there. When everything was put away in the cupboards and the sink cleaned, he was expelled from the paradise that this kitchen, with its dirty dishes, had come to represent.

She said she still had work to do and gently guided him out of the apartment. Outside in the stairwell her voice stopped him once more, “We meet tomorrow at five o'clock in front of the tax office.”

That he had both the time and desire for this meeting, she obviously assumed as given. Smiling, she closed the door. Wistfully, he returned to his apartment on the grey stone floor, which, unlike the rumbling wooden stairs, dampened the sound of his footsteps. He found it odd that she just sent him away without enjoying him in any way, without allowing him to spoil her. If he had a slave, she would certainly not have escaped so unused...

Lost like a fairy-tale child abandoned in the woods, he lay in his bed late at night. Everything in him yearned for his mistress, for her critical gaze, her loving smile and her austere, sometimes condescending words, which brought about the deepest reverence in him. He also longed for other things, which he preferred to keep to himself for the moment.