Читать книгу The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1 - Emanuel J. - Страница 3

The Mistress and the Lady

The tax office was located in Krämerstraße, five minutes by tram from home, on the other side of the river on the edge of the old town, in a tall building with a repellent black glass façade that seemed designed to intimidate from afar. The surrounding area, a multi-storey car park and some shops in grey concrete buildings, was no more appealing. On the four-lane road leading to the main railway station from the motorway, countless cars crawled at a snail's pace, as usual for this time of day. What in the name of God was Franziska planning here? Torment with tax forms? He was a bit early, and strolled with his hands in the pockets of his warm dark jacket shivering in the cool autumn wind under the silky blue sky. Like an industrious stream of ants, the passers-by, none of whom had a second to lose, hurried by with their eyes lowered, and, not for the first time, Daniel felt he was not of their world. Then she appeared, Franziska, he saw her from afar. She looked beautiful. Her hair was in a ponytail and she wore a dark blue down jacket with her jeans and blue sneakers. Smiling with joy, she came up to him, “Have you been waiting long?”

He waved silently and she took him by the hand as if they were a real couple. (Were they? Not really, he thought, since their relationship was more about form than it was about individuals. Or was that only the case for him? He didn't know for sure, but in any case he thought it prudent not to get carried away.) She did not even want to go to the tax office, but led him to a shop for equestrian supplies, which was housed in one of the concrete buildings.

Before opening the door, she smiled mysteriously at him from the side, “I'm sure there's something suitable for your training here,” had he understood correctly? Apparently, he had, since she asked the first salesman to direct her to the riding crops as soon as she entered the shop. Without hesitation she walked in the direction indicated. Pulling Daniel by the hand behind her, they passed helmets, bridles saddles, pitchforks, concentrated feed and supplements to the riding boots, where they turned left (the shop was bigger than expected), finally reaching a wall on which crops of various lengths were hung.

Franziska deflected a helpful saleswoman with friendly but firm words, and turned to Daniel with a generous gesture to the wall, “Pick one!”

Warmth crept into his cheeks under the interested gaze of the short-haired brunette saleswoman, who hovered two steps away and looked like a governess in her long grey dress. He blushed conspicuously, hoping that she hadn’t noticed. Each of the thin, flexible crops had a leather hand strap on the handle and a leather flap at the tip, and they were all surprisingly cheap: the cheapest was six euros, the most expensive 15. There were probably no notable differences in efficacy, he assumed. They would all hurt equally. Was he crazy to choose something that was meant to hurt him? Without thinking about it, he took one of them off the hook, one of medium length and medium price, with a tip a finger’s width wide.

In the background, the saleswoman’s voice sounded, “This model has a core of fibreglass, is encased in nylon and is often used to discipline a slave because of its manageability,” what? Did he hear right? The lady looked so uninterested, as if she had described the advantages of a mosquito spray.

Of course, the decision had been made: This crop was the one. Daniel was immediately tasked with carrying it, while Franziska looked at the riding boots, “The heels are all very flat. Is there anything higher?”

The saleswoman shook her head regretfully, “Heels are unsuitable for horse riding.”

Clearly Franziska had no intention of riding a horse. The fact that she paid for the crop at the front of the shop without discussion was fine by Daniel, as he could hardly have been expected to finance this pain from his own pocket. That he had to carry it around the city unwrapped and visible to everyone, he thought less acceptable, but nobody was interested. The only consolation for him was not to hold it by the handle, but in the middle, which seemed somewhat more innocuous. This did nothing to dispel his fear that everyone knew its intended purpose. His free right hand was held by Franziska, for which he was very grateful. She was not ashamed of him, did not keep distance so that no one could establish a connection between them. He had no idea that this carelessness simply arose from a different and more realistic standpoint. In contrast to him, she knew full well that in reality no one was paying attention to them, everyone had their own concerns, which by enlarge did not concern dominance or devotion. Only a few steps away from the tram stop, he was suddenly brought to a halt in front of the shop window of a shoe shop whose display Franziska looked at with interest. She didn't want to, did she? Yes, she did! Quietly grumbling, he followed her into the rather exclusive shop, which he would never have entered after a glance at the prices. They were advised by a small, wizened saleswoman, it turned out that the choice was very limited: there were exactly two pairs of high black boots in size forty-one, one soft leather, the other shiny. Both had the high heels missing on the riding boots. She tried on both pairs and teetered a few steps over the red carpet. Daniel marvelled, speechless, all thoughts of expense forgotten. The boots were not mere footwear; they were boots fit for a mistress.

She chose the soft leather ones that reached up to her knees, and Daniel was even more amazed to see a woman so decisive about shopping. The price that made him wince didn't seem to be a problem for her. Two hundred and twenty euros! Well, she came from a rich family, as Isabel had told him some time ago. She paid by credit card and had her boots packed into a shopping bag without a box, which of course was handed to Daniel. His hope was immediately shattered by her penetrating gaze. No, the crop was not allowed in, he had to carry it around with him like a neon sign.

As she left the shop, Franziska smiled joyfully at him and approached his ear with her lips, “You must know how a devoted slave greets his mistress, right?”

Oh. Is that what she meant? Even the thought of it aroused in him deep shame, which inevitably induced feverish lust in a person with his inclination. Or perhaps she didn’t mean that? But then she wouldn't have needed boots, “I think I know what you mean, but I'm not quite sure,” again, warmth tingling through his cheeks.

Franziska smiled amusedly, “You think you know. Very nice... And you're blushing. So, I think you know the right thing. And you should understand that I don't want to have to give you orders for everything. You know what I mean?”

Oh, yes. He understood. They had reached the bus stop and he muffled his voice to the linden breath, so that none of the bystanders heard his words: “Yes ... my mistress.”

“Fine. You seem to have really understood.”

The tram wound its way circuitously and took them first to Wilhelmsplatz, the traffic junction by the old town, where almost all of the city's buses and trams met, then on to a wide bridge over the sluggish flowing river, on which a white pleasure boat overtook a dusty black coal freighter, to the stop directly in front of her house. Hand in hand, they climbed up to the second floor, and if he had been a believer, he would have sent a prayer of gratitude to heaven, since they encountered no roommate.

With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she denied him entry outside her door, “I need to rest first. You can come at nine, ” when he moved to hand her the crop and the boots, she shook her head a second time, rebuking now, “Don't you know how a well-bred slave hands something over to his mistress?”

Yes, of course he suspected again what she meant. But what if his hunch deceived him, she expected something completely different, perhaps much more harmless, and he did it anyway? Then he'd be pretty embarrassed. Steps rumbled down the wooden stairs creaking from above and Roland came drudgingly, a strong, hulking man who lived in one of the two upper apartments. Disgruntled as usual, he raised his hand in perfunctory greeting as he passed by, smiled wanly and rumbled down the next staircase. Law students seemed to have a hard life with little joy, but maybe it was just his nature. And apparently, he was blind, too, at least, he didn't seem to have noticed the crop in Daniel's hand.

Franziska cocked her head, “Are we going to stand here all night?”

Daniel took a deep breath, hesitated for a moment... and bent his knees in front of her to a curtsey like a maid in front of the noble lady. In his fantasies he had had to do that on occasion, without ever having thought it possible that he would actually do it in real life, for an actual person.

A halfway satisfied smile scurried over her face, “Well, look, you know what I mean. Only the execution is still lacking. And would it kill you to say a few fitting words? Let’s try again. But right now!”

A second time he curtsied before her, deeper, more devoted now, and a little higher he raised his hands with his stick and boots, whispering to her the words he thought were the right ones: “Here you are, my mistress.”

Her smile was no longer reserved and now she took the stick and boots, “You see, it's alright. See you later,” gently she pulled the apartment door shut behind her, disappearing into her castle.

Still thinking about her, he made himself a coffee in his kitchen. It was really striking how much their ideas matched and how he always knew exactly what she was asking of him, even if she didn't say it clearly. It was as if each had a film in their head, and these were made by the same director. Perhaps they were. Maybe she also read the relevant internet forums, maybe even the same one as him, and, who knew, maybe she looked at the same porn photos on the same BDSM pages. Did women do that? Some, for sure, he knew from Internet acquaintances, and the tantalizing mistress ideas, with which Franziska surprised him, suggested as much. The dishes needed doing, but he didn’t feel like it. Perhaps he should take them to Franziska's kitchen, where even dishwashing turned into an enchanted adventure...

*

With a pounding heart, he stood in front of her door at nine o'clock. Would she let him feel the sting of the whip? Would it hurt badly? Breathless, compelling fear of this encounter, shame at what he might be forced to do mingled with the frisson of expectation in his mind. He rang briefly, waited a second, and then gently pressed against the cheap door that opened readily for him. Stealthy as a thief in the night he snuck into the hallway, which was illuminated by a small light next to the coat cupboard. The kitchen door to his right was half open, but the kitchen was dark behind it, while a strip of dim light emerged from the living room straight ahead. And from there Franziska's voice sounded: “We are here!”

We? She was not alone? Cautiously he entered the room. He had only been there once before, prior to ending up stuck in the kitchen on his subsequent visits. She had company - comfortably stretched out, Isabel lounged in an armchair, dressed in a blue skirt and a black T-shirt. Today, however, she was not wearing the usual sandals, but black sandals with low heels, and, unusually, she wore no socks, so you could see her toenails painted in the same dark red as her fingernails. Franziska sat in the second armchair, crop in hand. She wore jeans as usual, plus a plain long-sleeved red top with a scoop neckline - and the new boots! Waiting, she looked at him. He knew exactly what she wanted and it was very exciting... But in front of Isabel? Her presence made him freeze into a pillar of salt. Wouldn't she be shocked and lose the last bit of respect for him? She struck him as very decent, and almost certainly entirely inexperienced in BDSM.

Franziska cocked her head, “Have you forgotten how an obedient slave greets his mistress?”

“No. I just thought...”

“And have you forgotten how to address me? All gone from your head?” She let the crop spring in her left hand, “Looks like I shall have to teach you all this first. Take your pants off!”

“Please, Franziska, I could give you... you...” Oh, what did he care about Isabel's gaze? She knew that he was Franziska’s slave, and it was not only absurd, but made everything even more shameful when he tried to hide his role from her. “Please forgive me, my lady. I didn't have the courage for a moment... May I greet you as you deserve?

She smiled surprised, “Oh, that sounds better now. Just a little late. Come on, pull them down!”

It was as if every piece of furniture in the room were staring at him: the small television, the cheap stereo, the books on the shelf, the round glass table and the black leather suite with the two armchairs and the small sofa. All this seemed improvised and thrown together, but this was normal for such an apartment, which was not meant to be occupied long-term. Involuntarily his gaze wandered through the window to the façade of the neighbouring house, which one could see very clearly through the beige curtains. They were not opaque and one could look out almost unhindered through their fine gauze. Most probably it was as easy to see in, a fact that he preferred not to think about right now.

Commanded by Franziska’s impatient tone, he hesitantly unbuckled his belt, undid the button on the waistband, the zipper. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the jeans down to the middle of his thighs. But this was not enough. “Keep going!” He pushed the pants down to his ankles, then his black underwear. Filled with hot shame, he would have liked the ground to swallow him as the two women gazed pitilessly at his tiny little cock, dangling pathetically. With small steps, constrained by the fetters of his pants, he maneuvered himself between the armchairs and to the round table, on which stood a bottle of red wine and two bulbous glasses, both filled two finger's breadths high. As if condemned to death, he obeyed Franziska's next command, leaning forward and resting with both hands on the thick glass of the table top, while his eyes closed all by themselves like a sleeping doll.

He heard both women rise, and flinched when one hand touched his ass. It did not hurt him, but stroked him tenderly, accompanied by Franziska’s compassionate words, “My poor slave. You shall have to suffer a little. But it's your own fault. Are you embarrassed in front of Isabel?”

“Yes, my lady. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be ashamed in front of her, at least not more than me. And you will give her exactly the respect I expect from you. You will obey her every command and be her obedient slave. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my mistress.”

“Fine. Let's hope they're not empty promises,” the hand let go of him and he held his breath. Then the crop stung his ass and drew a cry of pain from his lips. But it wasn't as bad as he had feared. But that was only the beginning, the rehearsal, the acclimatization. Much to his horror, he noted during the next blows that this crop could really hurt (and thus “to discipline a slave” was entirely correct, just as claimed by the strange saleswoman). But he was not a child who had to endure a beating helplessly, it wouldn't have been a problem just to stand up and take her stick out of her hand, because he was stronger than she was. Then what? Sitting alone in the apartment again, bitterly repenting? Much too intriguing were the feelings that Franziska's severity gave him. He would have been loath to relinquish them now... He was, in fact, only physically stronger than her, in his soul he was defenceless against her. Tears ran down his cheeks under the painful blows she gave him with a cool hand, and when she finally stopped, the relief was not as good as expected.

The words he heard from her made his hair stand on end, “Are you going on?” He did not see it, but guessed she had passed the crop on to Isabel, accompanied by instructive words, “But don’t be timid. If you only hurt him a little, he will start to crave punishment and provoke it. Then he will never be obedient.”

Again, the stick clapped on his ass and immediately he felt that Isabel was sticking to the instructions she had accepted without comment. Again, tears ran down his cheeks, his tormented sobbing filled the room and he desperately wondered how the ordeal could be shortened. If resistance was not an option, then perhaps the plea for mercy? “Please...” The word was obscured by his whimpering, it was too quiet, he would have to try again. Or would he?

The stick paused and from afar Franziska's voice sounded in his ears, “I told you you'd have to suffer. And that will always be the case in the future if you do not obey our orders immediately. You understand? “

“Yes, my mistress.”

“What did you hear?”

“That I must obey your every command...” Further words gushed out of his heart, he could not hold back. Even if his love was perhaps “only” for her role and less for her person, she was no less important for it, especially since he no longer recognized any difference between the role and the person anyway.

A smile resonated in her words, “Nice to hear. I'll do anything for that... And now you must finally make up for the greeting.”

With his ass burning, he turned around and saw the two women standing next to each other a few steps away from him, Isabel still with the crop in her hand. Without a moment's hesitation, he sank to his knees in front of them and approached Franziska’s left boot. In many photos he had already seen something like this, half fascinated and half repulsed. He had sometimes fantasised about it, only to be ashamed again, because in the eyes of the normal world there was nothing more shameful. And never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined he would actually have to do it. Carefully he let his tongue glide over the smooth leather, over the instep and up the inside to the knee. It was more exciting than he could ever have imagined, because the boots were not inanimate objects, but an extension of the body of his adored mistress. Adding to the excitement, Isabel’s sandals awaited his attention. He now turned to kiss the delicate toes. He tried to suck them but could not, the sandals were too tight. So, he licked them devoutly, while he heard Isabel's voice saying, “It's funny to get your feet kissed as if you were a queen. But I think I could get used to it... Especially since the roles are reversed, it’s not always the woman who has to display affection.”

Daniel, too, found such an exchange of roles commendable, but couldn't say anything about it, since he had turned to Franziska again and was busy licking her right boot, snaking his tongue around the high stiletto heel, after which he turned to Isabel's right sandal. The fact that his mouth had become dry and dull from the shoe polish didn't bother him, he would have loved to keep going, but he wasn't allowed to, Franziska ordered him to stand up. Regretfully he relinquished Isabel's titillating toes and raised his upper body, kneeling to look up at the two women.

Satisfied, Franziska smiled at him, while Isabel looked at him half surprised and half excited, “He seems to have been pretty turned on by it.”

Awkwardly, he tried to hide his swollen cock with his hand, pretending not to hear her.

Reprimand rose in Franziska's voice, “Don't you want to talk to her?”

Talk? About that? Weren't there a lot of other topics they could have talked about? Her admonishing look told him that other topics did not interest her at that moment, and he stumbled over his words, “Yeah, it turned me on... pretty much...” He could not address her as he addressed Franziska, the role of mistress did not suit her, he believed she should be a slave as he was.

Franziska looked at him disapprovingly, “Is that supposed to be an answer? I think you should ask her forgiveness for your impertinence!”

Should he? Well, there was the stick that could really hurt a lot, and then there was the throbbing, tingling sensation that his submission gave him, inflaming his dick as he knelt before the women. Again, he raised his eyes to Isabel, “Please forgive my unseemly tone, my lady.”

She nodded kindly as Franziska's face brightened as if an idea had come to her, “Give us a little more pleasure. Stroke your cock!”

Stroke your cock? He knew those words, didn't he? Is that what she meant? He looked at her questioningly. But he wasn't allowed to look at her questioningly! He knew what she meant, saw her squinting at the crop and knew that he could not hesitate any longer. Gently he clasped his dick with his hand and began to play gently with it, moving his hand up and down slowly.

Isabel sounded dumbfounded, “What did you teach him there? That's perverted.” But not only did she find it perverse, she also seemed to find it stimulating (maybe she enjoyed the same thing), at any rate she watched spellbound as his penis twitched with arousal in his hand, he handled it very carefully so that no misfortune should befall him, “I've never watched a man do that before. How interesting, such a slave ... Only this mistress does not suit me. You're his mistress. He should call me by another name.”

“How?”

“I don't know, I don't know,” again she looked down on Daniel, “You're a writer. Can't you think of something?”

Oh, now it was his job now? How could he think when all the blood was rushing away from his head? However, there was one idea, albeit a very strange one: “My domina?”

Wrinkles formed on her forehead, “Are you serious? Are you calling me a prostitute? You want me to take your money?” She sighed hard, “I could use it... But you don't have any of your own,” thinking, she looked down at him. “There must be some suitable word... Don't you have any idea what you'd like to call me?”

Yes! Now he knew. In a novel, he had read some time ago, a very nice mode of address, “Lady Isabel? Would you like that?”

“Lady Isabel?” She wondered the words, “Yes, that sounds good... Beautiful, actually.” Her hand hovered benevolently over his head, “You're a genius.”

With the lightest touch, he continued to play with himself, he was so close to orgasm, the ultimate in humiliation before the two women, a helpless eruption of losing control, leaving him shaking and limp before them. Of course, it was also forbidden. With every tiny hand movement his cock twitched greedily, his whole lower body pulsated as he knelt before them trembling. Small sighs of pleasure escaped his lips, impossible to conceal.

Franziska smiled amusedly, “I don't know if he's a genius or not, but he's definitely ingenious,” her enquiring gaze turned to him. “Do you like to do that even when you're alone? How often do you jerk off in your bed at night? Or do you do it somewhere else?”

What was he supposed to say? The truth? And be labelled a perv? Or a flagrant and obvious lie that would portray him as an innocent lamb, chaste and without any carnal desire? Which nobody would believe anyway. He opted for the middle ground, “Not very often, my lady.”

“Not very often? What am I supposed to do with an answer like that? Let's make things clear: From now on, there is no orgasm for you without Isabel or me allowing you to have it. Do you understand?”

That was a very challenging order. Even though he was of course willing to obey it, he would not have bet on complete success. This was, after all, a cruel hand to be dealt. And his hand would be elsewhere in moments of temptation anyway. But he kept his doubts to himself, “Yes, my mistress.”

Franziska's gaze was sceptical, because apparently, she now also realized what she was asking of him, “Unfortunately, we can't control it. But you can count on us to figure it out sooner or later if you cheat on us. Quite apart from the fact that your conscience will torture you, since you long to be a good slave. You do, don't you?”

“Yes, my lady. There's nothing I crave more,” at least this affirmation he could give freely, as it reflected the truth. The statement pushed him dangerously close to the edge, he struggled not to come there and then. It was happening, he was losing control, his cock convulsing of its own accord, his entire body strained for sweet release while he tried his best to overcome it with his mind. He pleaded for mercy, fearing the humiliation of losing control, fearing the punishment that would inevitably ensue. “Please, my mistress... I’m going to come...” She generously allowed him to let go of his dick, but the penis, even completely untouched, still sprung up as if under an external power, and all his self-control was necessary to hold back the overwhelming tides to pleasure that threatened to burst their dams and ruin him. He squirmed and grimaced with the effort.

The two women sat down in their armchairs, let the glasses clink together and drank a sip of red wine without taking their eyes off him. Isabel took issue with the aesthetics of the lowered pants and Franziska ordered him to take them off. But this could not be accomplished without first removing the black sneakers, and when he then took off his underwear and dark socks at her behest, she sighed in frustration, “My God, this is very awkward,” she eyed the black T-shirt he was still wearing with a critical gaze. “Actually, these clothes are impossible... You like suspenders, don't you?”

“Yes, my mistress.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night you'll have some on! But no garter belt, because for that you need hips, which you are sorely lacking. It must be a corselet. And I want to see you in fishnets!” Like a spotlight, her gaze illuminated the hidden corners of his soul, “Some men like to dress like that. You, too?” Could he have no secrets from her? Until quite recently, he had occasionally indulged in such things, until a girlfriend had caught him nine months ago admiring himself in the mirror, dressed in her bra and panties. Upon which she was no longer his girlfriend. He preferred to keep these details to himself. He nodded guiltily and she smiled, knowing, “That's what I thought. We’ll see what you look like.”

Excitement coursed through his veins. The idea of daring to expose these tendencies and wear feminine clothes, which he had always worn only in secret, in front of Franziska (and probably also Isabel) fuelled the fire of his lust. Only one thing dampened his ardour: why tomorrow already? Why didn't she give him a few days to order something online, which would have been much more practical and cheaper (and would also have saved him contact with shop assistants)? Franziska seemed to be able to peer into his mind. “No Internet. You go to the store. And now you can top us up with wine.”

Add wine, of course. But unfortunately, it wasn't as harmless as it sounded, because he couldn't just pour it into the glass, he had to do it humbly. And this before Isabel, who sat in the armchair with wide eyes, wordless as though she had taken a vow of silence. And who also had to be treated like a mistress, no matter how difficult that might be for him. And who was also to be served first, as Franziska’s signal told him. His heart pounded in his chest as he stood in front of her with the bottle in his hand, and then there was no escape. Hesitantly, he curtsied before her, “Here you go, Lady Isabel.”

She looked to Franziska in awe, “I can't believe what you've taught him in such a short time.”

Franziska was modest, “You do what you can. And he's also very malleable.” They looked at one another, smiling, as he curtseyed in front of Isabel, and when their glasses touched they rang like bells. After a well-deserved sip, both went to the toilet, Franziska first, then Isabel. And he also needed to, for some time already and increasingly urgently. Fortunately, he didn't have to point this out, as Isabel looked at him maternally on returning to the room, “You too?”

He nodded gratefully, only to notice immediately that there was no reason for gratitude. There was no quiet place to speak of, since both women accompanied him to the blue tiled bathroom and watched him standing guard like Argus himself. There little room between tub, shower and sink, only a narrow passage leading back to the toilet. Above it was a small window, high enough that no one could look in. Now what? To pee standing as usual was of course completely impossible here in the realm of his mistresses. For a moment, his hesitation lasted, then he took a seat in front of their curious eyes.

Isabel pondered, “Should we really allow him to sit and pee like a woman?”

Franziska looked at her in amazement, “How else is he gonna do it? Standing is out of the question.”

“No, of course not. But he could do it on his knees!”

Franziska gave her an appreciative look, appreciating this bright idea. She turned her attention to Daniel: “You heard!”

Indeed, he had. And Franziska's admonishing look told him that she really meant it. Hesitantly he rose again, then sank to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, as if it too were an adored mistress. Gingerly he lifted the blue seat.

Isabel, who was obviously better suited as mistress than he had thought, tried her hand at the strict command tone, at which she did not succeed quite as convincingly as Franziska, but was nevertheless decisive enough to brand her words upon him: “You'll always pee like this here with us. And you keep the door open so we can see what you're doing. Did you hear that?”

“Yes, Lady Isabel.”

He knelt, struggling to do what had until now been so urgent, and when he thought it was impossible, the floodgates finally opened and for the first time in his life he peed in front of someone.

And, finally, this evening of first times came to a close. His mistresses were exhausted from their educational work and wanted to go to bed. Yawning, they watched him dress and led him into the hallway. With the half-full bottle of wine still in her hand (they were obviously not drinkers), Isabel gave him an embarrassed farewell smile, while Franziska, who carried the two empty glasses, looked him in the eye with command, “See you tomorrow night then... at nine, as usual... I will be interested to see what you come up with!”

So many feelings, excitement among them, trepidation, the stirring but humiliating memory of what he had endured this evening, anticipation of more to come.