Читать книгу Under a Mistress' Spell - Episode 7 - Emanuel J. - Страница 3

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When I wake up, I feel satin all over me, smell my sweet perfume, see through the pink curtains that it is bright outside. An oppressive pain in my crotch tells me why I woke up: Once again my penis in the dark dungeon has become too tight. All this is not a dream, I understand, all this is my reality.

A voice resounds from nowhere, almost as if God was speaking to me. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead." No, that's not God. That's Ilona. She's speaking to me over loudspeakers I can't see anywhere. "Go into the bathroom and put on whatever you find there. Then you'll make us breakfast."

Like God, she speaks imperatively. I torment myself out of bed and more memories come back. There is a shameful instruction that I must obey if I do not want to be electrocuted again. And I don't want that. To avoid it, I'll do anything, however humiliating it may be. So, I bend towards one of the cameras and ask permission to use the toilet.

A lot of smugness resonates in the answer: "That's a good boy. Always ask permission, or else Dolly will cry again."

The barred door gives way to the side in front of me and I go upstairs to the guest toilet, then look what's ready in the bathroom. It's the new light blue dress and I'm wearing white with it. And as usual, I have to put on the anklet. The locks of the leg irons snap into place as bright as silver, and I can't get rid of them without the consent of my masters.

It's almost eleven o'clock, so I can see on the huge living room clock. The sun is high in the sky, and when I turn on the small radio in the kitchen, the live broadcast of a Christian mass sounds. I quickly switch off again. Here too there are cameras, two of them in the corners, every spot in the house is being observed.

Richard and Ilona appear, he - dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, as almost always, she - wrapped in her long, colourful house dress. They sit down at the dining room table and I serve them breakfast with a curtsy, then stand waiting, having already had a coffee and not needing any more in the morning.

Richard points to the cameras. "Now, of course, they are deactivated. But if we're not here, we can see you on the smartphone in every room. Just so you know."

"I wouldn't have explained it to the little doll," says Ilona, spooning on the cereal I prepared for her. "She would have known soon enough that her had been punished for his crimes."

He waves muttering. "We owe her a little fairness."

"Oh, fairness. Let her feel it, then fairness is fair enough."

I don't think they'll ever be quite so heart and soul again. But I noticed something else: The fact that I am a she for him is nothing new, but that Ilona calls me a she, as she did at that memorable party before she spanked me with a stick in front of everyone, that takes some getting used to.

Clearing the table is of course left to me and I have to tidy up the kitchen on my own, menial tasks that the ruler doesn't want to deal with.

Sweet idleness after cleaning the kitchen, I'm not used to that anymore after the non-stop cleaning in the boot camp. My laptop, after all, I saved it from my apartment and brought it back here, it didn't disappear like my other possessions in some warehouse. Cowering on my seat cushion, I open it up and start my e-mail program first. Surely some messages have accumulated. But there is an error message. No access to the server. Address and password do not match. Why is that? It has always worked without any problems or at least most of the time. I'll check the configuration. It's okay. The password and the server data match. Why is it not working? At home, in my real home, no, in my former home, I would have started to complain. Here I don't dare and limit my expression of displeasure to a small grumble.

Richard, sitting in his armchair with his laptop, looks up. "Oh, I'd forgotten all about that. If you're trying to get into your account, you can't. We changed your password. Communication with old acquaintances would only confuse you. But don't worry. We'll check it from time to time. If there's anything important, we'll let you know."

What? You want to cut me off from the outside world?

Ilona is also on the spot with her laptop and she too is now raising her eyes. "You won't get into the forum either. It only gives you stupid ideas anyway. We have set up a blog for you for this purpose. "Check out Sissy Maid Valentina."

I type it into the search engine and come across a page that is completely pink with a wide flower frame all around. A text is to be read.

Dear readers,

I am the obedient Sissy Maid Valentina. As my masters commanded me, from now on I want to share all my experiences with you. Therefore, I will report daily what was asked of me and what I did during the day.

Since this weekend it has finally happened: 24/7 I am now at the service of my mistress and my master, ready to fulfill their every wish.

I wear only sissy clothes, nothing else. And because I am so lustful that I play around with myself in every unobserved moment, I wear a chastity belt.

I hope to be able to describe many exciting experiences to you.

Comments, suggestions, criticism from your side are explicitly welcome. If you have suggestions for my lords, I will forward them to them.

Your Sissy Maid Valentina

Ilona smiles at me. "We put in the introductory text for you. "You can write the rest. "All your experiences. But in great detail and without leaving anything out. We'll check it out."

She is not serious? No one, not a single person in the whole world can know what they're doing to me here. This must remain a closely guarded secret. And now they're asking me to do the exact opposite? To tell the whole world about my experiences so that everyone can shake their heads over me?

Ilona's gaze becomes threatening. "You'll do as I say. "You'll do exactly as I tell you."

Gently, I write down the access data she gives me on a virtual notepad.

Richard also looks at me with a warning. "Tonight, you'll write your first entry. Soon you will have a large following."

I have to stand up and he takes some photos of me with his smartphone, most of them from the front, some of them from the side, some of them with my back turned and bending forward, which is not easy for me, because it is a very provocative pose. When I am allowed to sit down again, he tampers with his laptop, and it doesn't take long before I see a new tab appear on my screen in the blog. Gallery. There you can admire them, the photos he just took. With face! The end of all anonymity. I dig out my last consolation: Of my acquaintances, who are all quite decent, with some exceptions, no one would be able to find their way to such a page. And if they do, I'm hardly recognizable with my made-up lips and long golden-blond hair. Who is pictured there, it is not me, it is Sissy Maid Valentina. But I have a lot to do with her. Maybe, as suspicion arises, she is more me than I am. Or at least as much. The ego that I think I am is being reduced more and more by people taking away my independence, supervising me, giving me orders and commanding me to ask for things that a normal person would take for granted.

"If you want to install a new program or change anything else on your laptop, you need my permission," says Richard. "You are not granted any rights."

Yeah, sure, it's not just the laptop. I still come into the forum, as a guest to read, only I cannot log in and write any posts, which I have done anyway only rarely. There is nothing interesting in it. The reality, which is mine, has overtaken the fantasies and worries written there as fast as a Ferrari overtakes a Fiat five hundred.

***

"A hard-working sissy maid needs a real apron," says Richard and hands me one. It is made of white satin, has wide ruffled ribbons tied at the neck and back to form a bow, extends from the bosom to the hem of the dress, and is lavishly trimmed with lace at the hems. "You always wear that when you cook," he says.

If I were a real woman, I would probably not be allowed to wear anything underneath, as I read in a novel once. But it's a thought that causes pain when something is pushed to its limits. I try to concentrate on cooking, I must not spoil the beef roulades, which I would certainly not be able to manage without Ilona’s help. She is at my side with advice but without action, since all the work is left to me alone. The food is going well. But how can I take it if I can't sit in the chair? Ilona has the solution ready: the plate may stand on the red rocking chair I once sat on, and I have to kneel before it on the hard slate floor, which no carpet can soften a bit. You can eat like this too, and it's still more dignified than having the food tipped on the floor.

After the dishwashing, which takes some time, the time has come: I write my first blog entry, share my today's experiences with the always excited internet community, a prosaic report under omission of all thoughts, associations and doubts. Once again, I read through the text, then I release it freely in God's name. Will there be a reader? The description is not spectacular, abnormal, obscene, but not particularly eventful, which I can be glad about.

Sunday night. That was the time when I took off my make-up, scrubbed the varnish from my fingernails, took off my wig, changed back into a man and drove home, still smelling a bit like perfume, but otherwise indistinguishable from a normal person, at least externally. - I will also take the wig off this evening and wipe the lipstick away with a cosmetic tissue, but my fingernails will remain red, my toenails too, of course. Instead of men's clothes I put on a sissy nightgown. Ilona hands me the little key with which I can take off my anklet, and yes, a feeling of gratitude really comes over me again, as if it wasn't a minimum of consideration, but a huge benefit.

I bow to Ilona in good faith. "Will you please allow me to go to the bathroom?" Clearly, this request is one of those things I will never get used to.

Magnanimously I am allowed. She really makes me the intimidated girl who can't do anything without permission.

They won't take me downstairs. I don't get a friendly word either, only instructions for the morning, then a curt order shooed me down the stairs, first to the guest toilet, then to the Sissy Room. As soon as I enter it, the barred door closes behind me and moments later the light goes off. Snuggled under the satin blanket, I think that the dreams of the night should actually be pink ...