Читать книгу The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1 - Emanuel J. - Страница 4

In the Corner

In the morning after his coffee he took his measurements and, after some research online, found a table indicating what his corset size. He already knew he would only be looking at A or B cups, he did not wish to exaggerate too much with his new curves. Especially as they also had to be filled somehow, preferably with rolled up stockings (as experience with the secretly borrowed bras of his former girlfriend had taught him). Equipped with this knowledge, at noon he set off under the dark cloudy sky on his mission. He took the tram across the bridge, got off at Wilhelmplatz and steeled himself to walk into the busy department store. The lingerie department was on the third floor and there wasn't too much going on here, which was good, on the one hand, as there were few people to see him; bad, on the other, as those who did might look more closely.

With a red face he began to look through the selection of corselets, predominantly black, hanging from two clothes rails. He felt conspicuous, as if everyone could see immediately that he was shopping for himself. He felt culpable, as though caught committing a terrible crime. But why? He wasn’t hurting anyone, was he? But he was violating deeply entrenched norms, which, though mostly unstated, prescribed exactly what was permitted and what was not. And a man in women's clothes clearly belonged to the forbidden, to the nefarious, to the shameful. The distinction between genders is strict and impermeable, Daniel reflected on just how deeply social conventions were imprinted upon the human psyche, impossible to remove.

He wasn't even a man in women's clothes, and he probably wouldn't become one that quickly, because what he found here he couldn't even squeeze into, it was all far too small. Did they cater only to elves? No, more or less normal women, for whom everything certainly fit, only not a giant like him. The stockings didn't look any better. The few fishnet stockings he found were all size three at most. It was hopeless, he realized, quietly grumbling he rode down the escalator again.

Now it had also started to rain! Why did Franziska have to make everything so complicated? Why couldn’t she have patience for a couple of days? Then he would have been able to order everything in peace and quiet on the Internet and there wouldn’t have been any issue. But no, here he had to muddle through the pedestrian zone in the pouring rain, cursing the weather and everything else. And yet still he thought only of his mistresses, of the overwhelming feelings of lust they gave him, even in their absence.

He was drenched, running to shelter in the next department store. The lingerie department here was on the second floor.. As if a switch had been flicked, the warmth crept back into his cheeks on the way up. Well, at least he was in no danger of catching cold. There weren't many customers here either, but fortunately enough of them to keep the two saleswomen busy and off his back. He located the rail of corselets between bras, nightdresses and briefs, and lo and behold, they carried some in an extra-large size. They should fit him, and they were less expensive than he had feared. He inspected them more closely and soon decided on one. It was black with lace edges, a B cup with ruched satin straps. Its clasps were made of metal, rather than plastic, very classy. The crotch was semi-transparent mesh, with a revealing thong back.

With a burning face, he carried it to the cash register, looking around in what he hoped was a bored manner as he stood in line, then laid it on the counter as if he had nothing to do with it. Finally it disappeared into a black plastic bag, no stranger could catch even a glimpse of it, he could not quite believe that he would expose himself to his mistresses wearing it. Although the gaze of his mistresses no longer seemed so unusual... Oh. The change. He almost forgot. He got a tenner and a few coins back from his fifties.

Fishnet stockings of a sufficient size did not exist here either. And likewise in the next department store. There was no such thing in this whole damn town! What kind of unsolvable task had Franziska set him? The failure of the mission was clearly her fault if she didn't allow him to do things his way. Hmm. But whether she would understand that was still the question. Was it not one of the advantages of being a mistress that one could always blame the poor slave?

At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Nevertheless, he ran back to the long pedestrian shopping street, quite stumbled, with the black plastic bag in his hand, which seemed like cruel mockery to him, because what use was the most beautiful corselet when the stockings were missing? He would probably have no choice but to get some more in size three in the department store near Wilhelmsplatz, which he would then have to stretch and stretch, which would probably look rather strange. But there was no other solution. It started to rain again. But at least he didn't have to walk far.

Suddenly, he stopped as though rooted to the ground. What the hell was that? From a small side street, a red neon sign with the inscription hosiery shone promisingly like a star to the three wise men It felt like a sign. But should he really go in there? There were certainly no long rows of cloakroom rails in there that you could sneak along inconspicuously, there was probably a person with whom you had to share your request face to face. On the other hand, it was the last chance to complete Franziska’s mission (and to make a dream come true). And it was also dry there (which was really the weakest of the arguments he made to himself).

Some plastic women's legs could be seen in the shop window, each wrapped in a stocking, one even in a fishnet stocking. Without thinking, he opened the door. It was a very small shop, but stuffed with stocking packs that crowded into glass shelves on the walls and in chests in the middle of the room. Nobody was there. Then, an old lady with set curls came out of the next room, old-fashioned in a green suit with a knee-length skirt and a blazer tightly buttoned up the front. With burning cheeks he voiced his desire, stumbling over his words, “I need stockings... for an acquaintance. Fishnet stockings.. for suspenders. Black, size four at least.”

The lady looked him up and down, “It’ll be a size five at least.” Hm. She had obviously disregarded his mumblings about an acquaintance. With great purpose, she went to one of the chests and pulled out a pack of black fishnet stockings like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, “This should be the right thing for you. They are densely woven at the tip so that they do not pull between the toes, which can be rather uncomfortable.” Oh. Amazing what specialist knowledge all this required. He took a second pack with him, just to be on the safe side, you never know.

The lady smiled approvingly, “They are more robust than normal stockings. There's a lot you can do with them. Maybe that's why your friend recommended them to you.” For the first time in his life, he noticed the similarity between recommended and commanded. So weird.

He pretended not to have heard her and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket, while the lady placed two circular and black foam inserts the size of halved grapefruits on the counter, “If you need any padding? They feel good, are so light that they do not slip, give a nice shape, are machine washable and quite cheap. These are for a B cup.” Could she see through plastic or read his mind?

He looked right past her, “Okay.”

Together with the stockings they disappeared in his black bag and he put thirty euros on the table. He sacrificed the one cent he was supposed to get back to a quick escape. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried into the street, and was immediately drenched by the torrential rain. When he finally got home, he looked like he’d fallen in the river. But the main thing was that nothing had happened to this precious cargo, protected by the waterproof plastic bag. He took a shower and creamed his whole body from top to bottom to soften the smooth skin. Then he had to wait, actually write, yes, but nothing occurred to him, so wait until evening finally came. In the meantime, he looked up the association between recommend and command. In some unfathomable way the words had developed over the course of millennia from an Indo-European origin with the meaning “to cover, to envelop”, he read. And now, in these supposedly modern times, they were used like a code by a stocking saleswoman who told him quite obviously that she at least suspected why he had come to her shop.

*

The corselet fitted snug against his skin. It fitted well, and as Franziska predicted, it was very practical, because it didn't need hips as support, which it got from the thin straps over the armpits. The lady in the stocking store was also right: The foam inlays felt soft and warm and gave an attractive shape, almost as if real breasts filled the cups. The fishnet stockings flattered his legs very nicely and reached far up over the middle of the thighs, the straps were hardly stretched by them. Only the thong had some trouble containing the swelling sex under its mesh facade. Fascinated, he looked at himself in the long mirror hanging in the hallway, fortunately left there by the previous tenant. What he saw filled him with a tingling sensation and deep gratitude for his mistress, under whose direction he could experience these wonderful adventures. not a hint of the afternoon’s disgruntlement remained, what she had asked had been difficult, but not impossible. His complete change of mood was true to the stereotype of the volatile slave.

Since he of course could not leave the apartment in this outfit, he pulled his normal men's clothes over it, which he would then have to (be allowed to) take off again over there, which admittedly was rather cumbersome, but unavoidable. At nine o'clock he hurried over to the neighbouring apartment with his padding in his hand, briefly pressed the bell button and opened the door with a pounding heart. Today, he was not expected in the living room, but in the kitchen, he saw the light coming from there. There were probably dishes to wash.

Franziska was alone and greeted him in a very strange manner, staring at him in amazement as though he were an exhibitionist who had just accosted her with unexpected nudity beneath his coat, “What's that?” How? What did she mean? He was so confused by the consternation that he could say nothing and act even less, which meant that the deferential greeting that she presumably expected from him did not occur. Apparently, she had forgotten it in her surprise. “Didn't I tell you I wanted to see you in suspenders? And what are you wearing? A pair of jeans and a T-shirt! And sneakers. And socks. How is this possible.”

“But Franziska, my mistress. I'm wearing what you... what you told me to wear.”

“Then why can't I see it?”

“It's underneath.”

“Underneath?” Said in a tone that suggested she did not understand the word. “And what's that in your hand?”

He hesitated for a moment, “Padding ... for the cups.”

“For the cups? You're really killing me! What would you say if I carried my bosom around in my hands? Would you like that?” No, he wouldn't like that and didn't want to imagine it either, what a horrible thought. Still she had not recovered from her horror, “What were you thinking?”

“Yes, but I can't...” His words died a pitiful death.

“What can't you do?”

“Well... walk around the stairwell in women's clothes.”

“Oh, now do you decide what you can and can't do?” She sighed hard, “Looks like you still need to be taught the most basic things.” She approached him with her head slightly tilted and pointed to the small niche next to the shelf, “Stand over there in the corner. There you can think about what you've just done.”

What? He was supposed to stand in the corner? She couldn’t be serious, could she? Her flat hand sounded and landed on his cheek and immediately a second time. Her voice suddenly sounded cool, “Do I have to help? You are sure of your punishment, but it will be more if you do not do what I tell you immediately!” She slapped him again and he stood there, hesitating, where she wanted him to be, his back turned to her, “You don't move, you don't make a sound.” The silence was interrupted only by the sound of a chair that was adjusted as she sat down, and by the rustling of paper, which suggested that she was leafing through a magazine. He saw nothing but the grainy white wallpaper in front of him. He closed his eyes.

Quiet footsteps approached and the next moment Isabel's astonished voice sounded, “Oh. What's that?”

Franziska's answer sounded indifferent, “He's in the corner as a punishment.”

“Like back in school?”

“Yes, that's right. Somehow you have to teach him obedience.”

“Because he's not wearing suspenders?”

“He's got some on, he says anyway. But underneath.” She pronounced the word underneath as though it were a term of unimaginable perversion and sighed, frustrated, “It was to be expected that his training would still require a lot of work.”

“But it's also interesting, the educational work. I'll come back later.” Isabel's footsteps moved away and gently the door to her room closed.

Franziska let him stand there for hours, it seemed to him, and he was still holding the padding in his hand. He stood here like a little boy, deeply humiliated. He felt aggrieved. What did she expect from him? Should he take a walk-through town in suspenders? She had said that he was already sure of his punishment. He was afraid of the hard blows and yet the old-fashioned word chastisement stirred shivers of arousal in him. Could he calm her down somehow so she would be a little milder with him if he was very sweet and very obedient as soon as he was allowed to talk again?

As soon as he thought that, Franziska broke the leaden silence, “So you think I'm asking you to do impossible things. How long will it take you from your apartment to ours? Five seconds?”

“I don't know, mistress.”

“Of course not. How could you? I don't care if it's eight seconds or ten. The stairs out there creak the second anyone so much as thinks of stepping on them, you could hear a mouse on them... And you're saying in all seriousness that someone might see you in those few seconds? That would only be possible if you were completely deaf. And you're not, are you?”

“No, my mistress,” he still spoke against the wall because he dared not turn without her permission.

“Fine. And because you are not deaf, you now go back over to your place and make a second attempt. Maybe this time you'll know what to do.”

The relief at finally being released from the shameful corner (not that the corner itself was shameful, it was rendered shameful by his standing there) was clouded by the prospect of the test of nerve Franziska’s request presented. In the hallway, she opened the upper drawer of the dresser that stood there, digging out something black.

Thin ballet shoes, he saw as she pressed them into his hand, “Put them on. They ought to fit. And make sure it doesn't take too long.”

“Yes, my lady, I will hurry.”

He opened the apartment door, to find himself faced with Jasmin, the pleasant, chubby, brown-haired law student who lived upstairs in the flat next to Roland and had just come down the stairs. She smiled at him affably and glanced at the things in his hands, but she said nothing about it, and they exchanged a few harmless words about the weather before she went on her way. Franziska’s assertion that one could not be surprised here was probably pure wishful thinking, but perhaps it could be avoided if he paid better attention.

Arriving at his apartment, he took off his outer clothing completely, pulled up his stockings a little, even though they had slipped down only a tiny bit, if at all, adjusted the mesh over his cock and balls and positioned the foam inlays in the right place. The ballet shoes, which were made of thin linen, had leather patches on the sole and were held fast on the foot by an elastic band, fitted as if they had been cast on, and, however flimsy, they took away from him the feeling of running somehow unfinished around in his stocking feet. And they looked very feminine. Like everything else about him. Breathless, he looked at himself in the mirror. So now he was really about to go and model his outfit for his neighbours. Wouldn't you think him misguided, or worse? If he dared allow himself to contemplate the possibility that there were indeed women who found something charming about a man in women's clothing, something inside him countered this thought, saying, “No one wants to see that!” He should have thought it over sooner. Now it was too late. There was no going back. There was no time for Hollywood-like drama. Where to put the key to the apartment? He didn't have a pocket to put it in anymore. Keeping it in his hand and then quickly putting it down somewhere over there seemed strange to him and also presented the danger that Franziska might take issue with this. It was probably better to leave it here and put the latch on the door so that he could simply push it open on his return. There was little danger of theft, only the inhabitants entered the building, and besides, no life was without risk. He opened the door a tiny crack and carefully peered out. There was nothing to hear and nothing to see. For a moment, he waited. Still no creaking, no footsteps on the stairs . The coast was clear. He snuck out into the stairwell, feeling as conspicuous as if he were in the centre of town with a busload of tourists preparing to point cameras at him. Nothing happened. Hastily he rang the bell, feeling as though it rang through the entire building, specifically to announce his appearance to each of the residents. He entered the apartment like a rabbit disappearing into its warren in the face of a pack of dogs.

Franziska came out of the kitchen, Isabel came out of her room. They looked at him, domineering. He knew exactly what he had to do, didn't need instructions, overcame the deep shame and sank wordlessly to his knees before Franziska, devotedly licked her boots and then turned to Isabel to greet her like a godlike ruler with her beloved red lacquered toenails. There could be nothing more exciting, on his knees before these women.

Franziska stroked his hair benevolently with the remark that he was making good progress in his training.

Isabel, on the other hand, looked at him sceptically, “Looks funny...” She looked at Franziska as if she were the expert on transvestism, “Is it very humiliating for a man to be dressed like a woman, or does he find it arousing?”

For a moment Franziska paused to stroke his hair, “I don't know. I'd like to bet on the latter. But why don't you ask him yourself?”

Isabel's brown eyes peered at him as though he were a laboratory mouse, “And? What's it like? Humiliating or horny?”

The question was easy to answer, “Both, Lady Isabel. There's no difference. They're two sides of the same coin.”

“Humiliation makes you horny?”

“Yes, Lady Isabel.”

“And lust makes you humble?”

This was also possible if it was assumed that a pleasure slave functioned best in a state of excitement, “Yes, Lady Isabel. I guess that's...”

She nodded understanding, “It's a strange game... if it's a game at all. The cloak of civilization is pulled away and beneath it the unadulterated, the real being comes to light, the instinct ... No wonder most people want little to do with it.”

Franziska put two fingers to his lips and looked at himself smiling as he kissed them submissively and took them greedily into his mouth. “The theory seems to be right. He’s definitely in possession of a sex drive,” the fingers spread out and pushed themselves deeper, stoked lust in him, drove excited sighs from his lips, “The thing missing was humility. Have you realized what a faux pas you have made?” Yes, he did. He could only shake his head in disbelief at himself when he thought of it. He nodded without pausing to suck her fingers, and she shook her head, “Let's hope you learn something from this. Anyway, your insight is a little late.”

The fingers left his mouth and he was allowed to rise from his knees, which ached. Franziska ordered him to get the crop, which was lying on the chest of drawers. He held it as he had carried it through half the city, and heard the next instruction, “Hold it right! “

Right? He knew exactly what she meant, but hesitated for a moment, it was tricky to get it onto the upturned palms of his hands, to hold it with the requisite submission. Like an offering, he carried it over to Franziska. Now he understood what was expected of him, and bent his knees in a curtsey. Smiling, she took the stick from his hands and even before he understood what was happening to him, Isabel had handcuffed him. His hands were bound in front of him by cold hard steel, the locks clicking shut to restrain him tightly. The two women led him into the kitchen and forced his upper body down until his forehead lay on the table top. One hand remained on his neck to hold him down, while the other comfortingly stroked his hair and he heard Isabel's murmur in his ear, “I'm afraid it's going to hurt quite a bit. Franziska was really annoyed with you.” Her sympathy was that of a sadist, because of course her words increased his fear. Nevertheless, he was glad of the lovingly stroking hand.

Without warning, the dreaded whirring sounded, followed by an ugly clap. It was as if a wild animal had bitten him. Immediately the next blows pelted down upon him. Franziska gave him a vivacious beating, causing his consciousness to shift, at points he lost hearing and sight; apparently she was really angry at him. When she passed the stick on to Isabel, it was no better, even the blows of the less natural mistress were agonizing. The pain was intense, it became scarcely bearable as the bare buttocks were mercilessly whacked, the thong between them adding insult to injury, cementing his degradation. Words formed from his whimpering as if by themselves as he sobbed in pain and shame, “Please, Lady Isabel, please don't hit anymore. I'll be really polite, so polite, so obedient…”

And indeed, the anticipated blow did not materialise, but Franziska’s voice sounded immediately. “If you let yourself soften now, he'll start whining after the first stroke in the future.” He didn't see it, but, to his horror, he heard Franziska take the crop. Cruel mistress that she was, she struck him relentlessly, until he thought he may die of pain. He felt tears roll down his cheeks, his whole body shook from exertion, his legs went limp and he thought it might never stop.

Then came the quiet, the moment he had longed for. She let her hand sink to her side and he heard her voice through his light-headed world of pain. “When you beg for mercy, it gets worse. Remember that! And maybe someday you'll realize that I'm not asking you to do anything that can't be done. Now you may thank me.”

He was still lying on the table, abject and mistreated, and it was hard for him to form his sobs into words, “I thank you for the punishment, my mistress,” and suddenly more words appeared to him, how easily they came from his lips, with no effort or thinking required: “And I thank you for letting me be your slave. I love you, my lady...”

Isabel's voice sounded astonished, “Strange. The more you humiliate him and let him suffer, the more he eats out of your hand.”

A smile permeated in Franziska's voice, “That's just the way it is with submissive people. That's what the good Lord or whoever has given us for the taking.