Читать книгу Under a Mistress' Spell - Episode 7 - Emanuel J. - Страница 4

The Domestic Help

Night dreams are not pink, but they are childish. I hear piano music, a catchy melody I know, a children's song. Strange dream in which I even remember the text: "Brother Jakob, brother Jakob, are you still sleeping? Are you still asleep? Do you not hear the bells? Do you not hear the bells? Ding dang dong, ding dang dong..." No, I don't hear any bells. Am I awake? I'm not sure. My eyes are opening. And see pink. This is not a dream. The music is really playing, coming from speakers I can't see.

The memory returns. My instructions. That funny music must be my alarm clock. I'm tormenting myself out of bed, even though I'd rather be asleep. But I can't leave the room. I'm locked in. And I have to pee, as usual in the morning. I think of my instructions, feel infinitely ridiculous. But no matter. I start the day as it will probably continue: deeply humiliated. Curtseying into nothingness, I ask my invisible mistress or even my master for permission to go to the toilet.

Ilona’s voice sounds sweet from the loudspeakers. "When Dolly asks nicely, she can pee." Sweetness gives way to a stern tone. "Then you get dressed and make breakfast. But don't dawdle! We're in a hurry."

As if moved by a ghostly hand, the barred door in front of me scurries to the side. Driven by Ilona's admonition, I walk in large steps up to the guest toilet and then into the bathroom. Nothing moves in the house, it's as if it's extinct, there's no sign that they are in a hurry. The light blue dress is ready for me, underneath I am wearing white again. I paint my lips red, put on the wig and put on the anklet, as I was told to do. That's it with the space-consuming steps again.

Seven o'clock is the time, I see it in the living room. This is an unchristian time. I didn't think they'd get up so early. They told me yesterday what they wanted for breakfast: Ilona will have cereal with her coffee, Richard will be served crispbread with jam, which surprises me. I would rather have thought of scrambled eggs with bacon.

Ilona comes down first. She looks strange, austere, office like, tight black skirt reaching to her knees, white blouse. Only the worn-out sandals don't match. Fleetingly she says good morning to me, sits down at the table, looks at my curtsy and asks mockingly if I had had nice dolly dreams.

There seems to be no longer a feeling of closeness in her for me, only mockery and severity. But I must answer her anyway. "No, Lady Ilona, I was not dreaming." Even the title alone creates distance, as if I were addressing some strange mistress on the Internet.

It does not take long until Richard appears, in a dark suit and white shirt without tie. He also gets his breakfast served with a curtsy, and he doesn't ask about my dreams, but whether I slept well.

Even if I had been awake all night, the answer would be no different: "Yes, Lord, I have." I don't suppose either of them are really interested in my condition. Mentally, they are already at work, talking about a conference that is due to start early in the morning, and are in a hurry, have to go.

I triple after them into the hall where Ilona slips into high-heeled black shoes. Since I can't keep up with them fast enough, Richard helps her into the black blazer.

Her gaze wanders over to me. "Aren't you going to say goodbye?"

Oh, yes, of course. I sink down before her and let my tongue wander over her shoes, wondering that she suddenly seems to have all the time in the world.

"If we're not there, Dolly can't ask for permission if she has to," she says broodingly as if talking to herself. Her voice clears up as if an idea had occurred to her. "We'll do it differently." She goes to the shoe closet and takes out a pair of sandals, puts them next to the door of the guest toilet. "If you have to go, you have to lick them first, but thoroughly, not volatilely. Then they sort of give you permission."

Really? That's really perverse. Where does she get that idea? Of course, I don't object.

Richard also wants to be said goodbye, but differently. I'm about to kneel before him with his scepter in my mouth. Benevolently, he brushes me across the wrong hair. "This is how you say goodbye to me every morning. - Later comes Diamantina. Be good, you must obey her."

Her too? Is there anybody else in the world that I don't have to obey?

"You address her as madam and, of course, in the right manner," says Ilona.

Of course. What other way is there to address a maid? I can't answer with my mouth full. Richard pulls himself together, doesn't come off, lets me fasten his trousers and hurries into the garage with Ilona. The Ferrari roars up, rolls out of the yard with a bubbling engine and reluctantly starts to drive slowly, the poor car, which again cannot let off steam properly ...

For the first time I am alone here in this noble villa. My gaze falls on the sandals that stand next to the toilet door, sneering, it seems to me, and confident of victory, as if they want to tell me that they will definitely receive the reverence to which they are entitled. They are cream-coloured and have thin high heels. Aren't they exactly the ones Ilona wore when I first greeted her in slave fashion? It was almost exactly a year ago now and I remember doubting I would ever see her as a truly stern mistress. What a miscalculation. There's no shortage of severity, I'd like a little more respect in the meantime. - There are cameras here in the hall as well. A thousand eyes everywhere, I feel watched by Argus, only that I won't be able to lull him to sleep, no matter how boring my stories may be.

I can't forget that order. Richard has bookmarked a page in my browser where you can order food with delivery a few hours later. I already know what I need for cooking tonight. Entering the list is quite cumbersome, because I can't just type it in, I have to search for every item in given categories, the meat as well as the vegetables, the noodles and all other things. Not everything in modern times is practical, but at least this service saves me from leaving the house, which is a real blessing and almost more than I can expect. Although probably not even Ilona would think of chasing me out of the house in my sissy clothes, I hope anyway.

I also get fresh air on the terrace behind the house. It's odd that Richard and Ilona use it so rarely. They'd rather sit inside like computer nerds. From here you can see into the large garden, which resembles a park, which reminds me a bit of a boot camp. There is no neighbouring house for miles around from which one could look in. Some garden chairs stand around, very comfortable looking. But I am not allowed to sit on them. Stupid rule. What if I can't be seen out here? But they can. Even here, there are two cameras mounted on the wall. I take a seat cushion from one of the chairs and put it on the floor, hoping that at least that is allowed, and sit on it, with the laptop on my lap, leaning my back against the wall.

The WLAN reaches out to here and I have a look at the blog of Sissy Wife Valentina. It's a pretty name Richard came up with, actually. Turning me into a sissy seems to give him a lot of pleasure for whatever reason. The site has had twenty-three hits so far, but I don't know if that's a lot or a little for the short time. I would prefer it to remain hidden, because telling the whole world what I am doing is not in my nature, which is rather introverted and does not push to the fore. Fortunately, no one has left a comment, nor has anyone registered to be informed about new entries by e-mail.

Isn't there something moving in the house? Is there somebody there? A burglar? I see a shadow inside the living room, he's coming straight for the terrace door - not him, but her, the domestic help, whose name I can't remember. It's lucky it's her and there's no bad guy lurking about.

"There you are," she says, visibly relieved. "I looked everywhere for you. I thought you'd escaped." Her smile is gloating a lot. "Which would be a little difficult with your necklace. And you're dressed very strangely."

Yeah, ha-ha. I don't know what to say. I wonder where she might have come from with her strange name, which I still don't know, her light but unmistakable accent and the black hair? Spain, perhaps, or Portugal? She has squeezed her buxom figure into jeans and a tight red top and looks at me curiously with her dark brown eyes like a cute animal in the zoo, a meerkat maybe. Her face is a bit too wide and her nose a bit too chunky to be considered really pretty. Her lips are unvarnished, her fingernails are not painted, as it is probably appropriate for domestic help.

"Enough loafing," she says. "We have a lot of work to do."

If she thinks so? I have to obey her, I have learned, so I get up from the floor, put the upholstery neatly on the chair and am ready to follow her wherever she goes. She leads me into the cellar and looks through the barred door into my room. "Has become pretty. Just right for a girl. Just not for a man." She doesn't seem to think much of my role, but who does? We enter the utility room and there's a pile of clothes on the tile floor.

"Do you know anything about laundry?" she asks.

"A little... More about ironing..."

Her hand claps my face, a little clumsily, also half-heartedly, it hardly hurts, but it is deeply degrading. Slapped by the maid! As if she were my mistress. But she is, as apparently every woman who comes near me can rule over me quite naturally.

The woman seems almost as frightened as I am. It does not give the impression that she does something like this often, rather it seems as if I am a guinea pig and it’s a premiere. But she struggles for determination. "You were told what to call me. haven't you?"