Emanuel J. - The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1

A very fruitful shopping trip

There was much to learn for his mistresses and so he had the next evenings off. He had no desire to be free, would much rather have remained attentively at their service, but could not act on this. He kept it to himself too well educated already to start such a discussion with them. And he could still be a slave, if only in his thoughts and in his messages. Since he could no longer concentrate on his stories, they had all become alien to him, he began to process his experiences into a novel, to make them accessible to the whole world and to preserve them for future generations, or something like that. Anyway, it gave him much joy to write down his adventures, almost as much as the experiences themselves.

Nevertheless he missed his mistresses very much. This time at least he felt some security. On Tuesday evening he wrote Franziska a text message, as she had ordered. Although it was considered unnecessarily formal in modern communication, he paid close attention to grammatical niceties:

My dear Mistress Franziska, I think of you frequently and fondly. Your wish is my command; I remain faithfully at your disposal. Your slave Daniel.

And of course, she also received a message with similar content the following day. Few words that conveyed deep feelings. He happily read her answers, in the first of which she wrote that her boot was beautifully clean and that she liked to think of him, while in the second she said on Wednesday evening that she was looking forward to seeing him again as a devoted slave tomorrow evening at nine o'clock. Oh, my, tomorrow again. His heart pounded with excitement at the thought. He glowed inside with anticipation, fortunately not so much as to endanger the imposed command of abstinence. He floated in a carefree state. Actually, he hadn't felt this good in a long time.

In the evening Sascha came to visit us and of course could not refrain from asking about the mistress, with a broad grin on his face . Daniel, waved his questions away evasively, unwilling to reveal any of it again. Sascha wouldn't believe it, after all, which was better anyway. It was now inexplicable to him that he had been able to divulge his secret so easily at the last meeting, as though under the influence of a truth serum. There would be no more such slip-ups. His two lives remained strictly separated, one of which, the "normal" one, took place at the very edge of society, while the other, beyond all borders, lay in a wide rugged country in which hardly anyone could be seen (he permitted himself the odd Nietzsche paraphrase).

A double life. He regretted the lie of his silence. But he was no hero. The truth would have seemed as strange as fiction, for it would have seemed inappropriate for him to sit here in the armchair and drink wine instead of serving it to his mistresses with a submissive curtsey and watching them drink. That, he suspected, would have been difficult for Sasha to understand.

*

As Thursday evening approached, the more pressing the question of what he should wear became. There was no order for it, no clue, nothing. Doing what? Appear in his normal clothes? This could have quite painful consequences and was also quite unattractive. So, in lingerie? How would he know that the two of them really expected that from him today? What if they didn't and he still showed up? Well, then he had to reckon with mocking remarks. But how much need he worry about that? He knew exactly what they were asking of him, and Franziska had also written it very clearly in her text, saying that she was looking forward to seeing him as a devoted slave . And since it had long been clear that he was not wearing any men's clothing, he was able to stop all his superfluous considerations immediately.

Punctually at nine o'clock he scampered across the stairwell in his ballet shoes, all dressed in black with his corselette, fishnet stockings and thong. He announced himself with a short bell and quickly slipped into the hallway like a fleeing hare into the apartment, not glimpsed by a stranger's gaze, thank God. Ghostly quiet the apartment, nobody here, nothing moving, very strange. Only the door to Isabel's room was half open, yellow light fell out and from inside her voice was heard. "Franziska's in the shower. Come in here."

Carefully, as if she could be harmed by his gaze, he entered. She sat at the table in front of her laptop, dressed in a black knee-length skirt and a pink top. Half her head was turned to him and she looked at him smiling. "You look pretty. But won't you say hello to me? "Oh. Of course, I do. Only he couldn't get to her because she turned back to the laptop. And yet he came close to her when he ... His hesitation lasted only briefly, then he crawled under the table from the side and tenderly kissed the red lacquered toenails, but he immediately had to lift his head again, as she slipped out of her brown sandals - and her naked foot approached his lips. Oh. She hadn't let him do that yet. He greedily sucked her toes into his mouth, sucked on them, let his tongue glide over the instep and sole, devotedly licked the tender skin and then devoted himself to her other foot with the same tenderness.

Franziska's voice startled him. "He seems to really love your feet." She was standing in the middle of the room without him noticing her coming.

"Yes. And I love that he loves them," Isabel said.

But now he had to let go of her to crawl to his mistress, who was wearing elegant blue shoes with small heels, a pair of jeans (his gaze hadn't come any further up yet), and even down here still smelling faintly of her perfume. He had to straighten up and go to the kitchen with her, followed by Isabel, after she had saved everything and closed her laptop.

Some dishes were waiting for him, just a few glasses, coffee cups, two small plates and some cutlery, apparently the two had eaten in the refectory. When the dishes had been cleared away and the sink neatly polished, he handed each of them a quarter-filled, bulbous glass of red wine with a curtsey-like shape and again his gaze wandered to the green digital clock of the microwave, which he had been keeping an eye on the whole time. It was now two minutes to ten. Of course, he hadn't forgotten the order.. But should he really do it, now, just like that, without a word, without a hint, out of the blue? Was that not terribly shameful to expose himself thus, could Franziska or Isabel not at least have given him a hint if they really demanded it of him? They let the glasses clink together and drank while he stood helpless in front of them.

Isabel also looked at the microwave clock, where it was now one minute past ten, and she looked at Franziska with a smile. "Tomorrow it's your turn to cook... I told you he'd be embarrassed."

So they were waiting for this! They even made a bet? Without further hesitation, he took the tin can from the microwave, pushed the string down to his knees with a determined jerk, prepared himself with the lubricant and gently pushed the plug into his ass, which yielded more readily this time.

Franziska's words mingled with his sigh. "I thought you understood me. But apparently, I was wrong."

"Please forgive me, my lady. I wanted to..."

"So, you wanted? It would have been better for you if you had. You do realize you deserve your punishment?"

It was as if he had to confirm his death sentence. "Yes, my lady, I see it."

"Then bring me the crop!"

Where was it? Oh, out in the hall on the dresser. Instead of taking the opportunity to escape, he carried it into the kitchen on upturned palms and presented it with a humble curtsey. The glasses and the tin can with the tube were pushed completely to the back to the wall and he had to put his upper body on the polished surface. Franziska stroked his hair comfortingly, while today Isabel made a start for a change. She hit him hard and he cursed his miserable inhibition, which earned him only these burning blows. When Franziska then swung the crop, he cursed nothing, but only longed for the end of the ordeal. Never more, never more in his whole life he would disobey an order of his mistresses... When the next blow failed to materialize, he feared for a moment that it would continue immediately after, but then the hand fell from his head and he was allowed to straighten up. What a blessing! He recognized only the outline of his mistress through the veil of tears.