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

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?"

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