Emanuel J. - Under a Mistress' Spell - Episode 7

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 ...

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.