Emanuel J. - The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1

“But Franziska, my mistress. I'm wearing what you... what you told me to wear.”

“Then why can't I see it?”

“It's underneath.”

“Underneath?” Said in a tone that suggested she did not understand the word. “And what's that in your hand?”

He hesitated for a moment, “Padding ... for the cups.”

“For the cups? You're really killing me! What would you say if I carried my bosom around in my hands? Would you like that?” No, he wouldn't like that and didn't want to imagine it either, what a horrible thought. Still she had not recovered from her horror, “What were you thinking?”

“Yes, but I can't...” His words died a pitiful death.

“What can't you do?”

“Well... walk around the stairwell in women's clothes.”

“Oh, now do you decide what you can and can't do?” She sighed hard, “Looks like you still need to be taught the most basic things.” She approached him with her head slightly tilted and pointed to the small niche next to the shelf, “Stand over there in the corner. There you can think about what you've just done.”

What? He was supposed to stand in the corner? She couldn’t be serious, could she? Her flat hand sounded and landed on his cheek and immediately a second time. Her voice suddenly sounded cool, “Do I have to help? You are sure of your punishment, but it will be more if you do not do what I tell you immediately!” She slapped him again and he stood there, hesitating, where she wanted him to be, his back turned to her, “You don't move, you don't make a sound.” The silence was interrupted only by the sound of a chair that was adjusted as she sat down, and by the rustling of paper, which suggested that she was leafing through a magazine. He saw nothing but the grainy white wallpaper in front of him. He closed his eyes.

Quiet footsteps approached and the next moment Isabel's astonished voice sounded, “Oh. What's that?”

Franziska's answer sounded indifferent, “He's in the corner as a punishment.”

“Like back in school?”

“Yes, that's right. Somehow you have to teach him obedience.”

“Because he's not wearing suspenders?”

“He's got some on, he says anyway. But underneath.” She pronounced the word underneath as though it were a term of unimaginable perversion and sighed, frustrated, “It was to be expected that his training would still require a lot of work.”

“But it's also interesting, the educational work. I'll come back later.” Isabel's footsteps moved away and gently the door to her room closed.

Franziska let him stand there for hours, it seemed to him, and he was still holding the padding in his hand. He stood here like a little boy, deeply humiliated. He felt aggrieved. What did she expect from him? Should he take a walk-through town in suspenders? She had said that he was already sure of his punishment. He was afraid of the hard blows and yet the old-fashioned word chastisement stirred shivers of arousal in him. Could he calm her down somehow so she would be a little milder with him if he was very sweet and very obedient as soon as he was allowed to talk again?

As soon as he thought that, Franziska broke the leaden silence, “So you think I'm asking you to do impossible things. How long will it take you from your apartment to ours? Five seconds?”

“I don't know, mistress.”

“Of course not. How could you? I don't care if it's eight seconds or ten. The stairs out there creak the second anyone so much as thinks of stepping on them, you could hear a mouse on them... And you're saying in all seriousness that someone might see you in those few seconds? That would only be possible if you were completely deaf. And you're not, are you?”

“No, my mistress,” he still spoke against the wall because he dared not turn without her permission.

“Fine. And because you are not deaf, you now go back over to your place and make a second attempt. Maybe this time you'll know what to do.”

The relief at finally being released from the shameful corner (not that the corner itself was shameful, it was rendered shameful by his standing there) was clouded by the prospect of the test of nerve Franziska’s request presented. In the hallway, she opened the upper drawer of the dresser that stood there, digging out something black.

Thin ballet shoes, he saw as she pressed them into his hand, “Put them on. They ought to fit. And make sure it doesn't take too long.”

“Yes, my lady, I will hurry.”

He opened the apartment door, to find himself faced with Jasmin, the pleasant, chubby, brown-haired law student who lived upstairs in the flat next to Roland and had just come down the stairs. She smiled at him affably and glanced at the things in his hands, but she said nothing about it, and they exchanged a few harmless words about the weather before she went on her way. Franziska’s assertion that one could not be surprised here was probably pure wishful thinking, but perhaps it could be avoided if he paid better attention.

Arriving at his apartment, he took off his outer clothing completely, pulled up his stockings a little, even though they had slipped down only a tiny bit, if at all, adjusted the mesh over his cock and balls and positioned the foam inlays in the right place. The ballet shoes, which were made of thin linen, had leather patches on the sole and were held fast on the foot by an elastic band, fitted as if they had been cast on, and, however flimsy, they took away from him the feeling of running somehow unfinished around in his stocking feet. And they looked very feminine. Like everything else about him. Breathless, he looked at himself in the mirror. So now he was really about to go and model his outfit for his neighbours. Wouldn't you think him misguided, or worse? If he dared allow himself to contemplate the possibility that there were indeed women who found something charming about a man in women's clothing, something inside him countered this thought, saying, “No one wants to see that!” He should have thought it over sooner. Now it was too late. There was no going back. There was no time for Hollywood-like drama. Where to put the key to the apartment? He didn't have a pocket to put it in anymore. Keeping it in his hand and then quickly putting it down somewhere over there seemed strange to him and also presented the danger that Franziska might take issue with this. It was probably better to leave it here and put the latch on the door so that he could simply push it open on his return. There was little danger of theft, only the inhabitants entered the building, and besides, no life was without risk. He opened the door a tiny crack and carefully peered out. There was nothing to hear and nothing to see. For a moment, he waited. Still no creaking, no footsteps on the stairs . The coast was clear. He snuck out into the stairwell, feeling as conspicuous as if he were in the centre of town with a busload of tourists preparing to point cameras at him. Nothing happened. Hastily he rang the bell, feeling as though it rang through the entire building, specifically to announce his appearance to each of the residents. He entered the apartment like a rabbit disappearing into its warren in the face of a pack of dogs.

Franziska came out of the kitchen, Isabel came out of her room. They looked at him, domineering. He knew exactly what he had to do, didn't need instructions, overcame the deep shame and sank wordlessly to his knees before Franziska, devotedly licked her boots and then turned to Isabel to greet her like a godlike ruler with her beloved red lacquered toenails. There could be nothing more exciting, on his knees before these women.

Franziska stroked his hair benevolently with the remark that he was making good progress in his training.

Isabel, on the other hand, looked at him sceptically, “Looks funny...” She looked at Franziska as if she were the expert on transvestism, “Is it very humiliating for a man to be dressed like a woman, or does he find it arousing?”