Emanuel J. - The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1

THE MISTRESSES NEXT DOOR

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Femdom Roman

Emanuel J.

Cover: Giada Armani

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved.It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

Dolled Up

It was strange. With a pounding heart, Daniel stood speechless in Francis's kitchen. He only wanted to bring her a packet of sugar, because she had lent him one two days ago. It was as though her inquiring gaze penetrated hidden corners of his soul, seeing the images racing through his mind... Scenes in which she exacted obedience from him, dominating him. She was a sociology student, a little younger than him, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and half a head shorter than him, making her of an average height, since he was quite tall. She was pretty with her mid-length golden blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the narrow lips, and the aristocratically curved nose. The silence lasted for seconds, an eternity. What was he supposed to do? Soon the spell would be broken and he would trot back over into his apartment as if this magical moment had never happened.

She pointed to the hanging cabinet above the sink, “Put the sugar in there!”

Confused, he looked at her. It didn’t sound like a request, nor a suggestion, no, it had actually been an order, as if she had glimpsed his desire, and would find it appealing to play the mistress. Was that possible? As if there were no other choice, he opened the door of the cupboard, in which there were three compartments, the lower one filled with coffee filters and bagged soups, the middle one with cooking oil and various types of vinegar.

Again, her voice sounded harsh and commanding, “At the top!”

He had to stretch a little to put the sugar up there between an unopened packet of coffee and a box of sugar cubes. Franziska, wearing tight jeans and hiding her pert breasts under a wide blue sweater, nodded to herself as if a test had produced the expected result. After a moment of reflection, she sat down at the table, which was not covered by a cloth and which stood with its long side against the wall, because there was no better place for it in the small kitchen. A smile spread across her face, almost generous, as if she were ready to grant him a wish. Again, her clear, bright voice rang, with its northern German accent, “You may wash the dishes.”

What? ... The normal reaction would have been to ask her if she still had all the cups in the closet. (She didn't, of course, because two were standing on the worktop next to the sink, even though they weren't real cups, but coffee cups made of thin porcelain.) But there could be no normal reaction because the situation was not normal. Things were different than usual. A feeling of tingling excitement intermingled with the indignation that had risen in him. Franziska was confident, “Don't pretend you don't want it!”

Well, what if she meant it? Wordlessly he turned his back to her (presumably, he thought, he would never say anything to her again, since in her presence he had become but a dumb servant, following orders mutely) and let hot water rush into the stainless-steel sink. There wasn't much crockery, just the two coffee cups, some plates and a some cutlery. The foam rose high above the water, a little less detergent would have done the trick. He leaned the washed plates against the wall, which was tiled white behind the sink, to dry them off, and took care that the rounded run-off surface ridges prevented them from falling over, so he wasn’t left standing in front of shattered plates like an incompetent. His gaze wandered to the glass door, through which a small balcony was visible, and down to a large backyard that served as a parking lot for the inhabitants of the surrounding houses. A gusty autumn wind swept through tops of some small trees, their leaves showing the first hints of yellow. It was half past seven and darkness crept from the sky while the warm yellow ceiling light was on inside. He took the cloth that was hung over the handle of the oven and began to dry, the plates first, then the cups.

“Do you know where my book is?” Isabel stood in the kitchen, Franziska's roommate. She had long dark hair and big brown eyes. She was slightly smaller than Franziska and seemed softer, quieter and more introverted. The fact that she studied business administration didn't really fit her, Daniel thought. Rather, he could see her as a psychology or German studies student, because that seemed more feminine to him, but these were probably nothing but highly dubious clichés. She wore a short blue pleated skirt, a black sleeveless top over her lush bosom, and worn out brown sandals. Astonished, her look flitted from Daniel to Franziska and back again, of course she didn't understand why he was doing the dishes, while Franziska watched him idly.

Her as yet unexpressed question was answered immediately, “It is charming for him to wash our dishes.”

“What? Charming? Wash the dishes? Why don't you help him?” the faintest twang of a leisurely South Baden dialect lilted in her dusky voice. Confused, she played with the pearl necklace that almost always adorned her neck.

Franziska smiled confidently, “He'll be fine.”

Silently, Daniel dried the plate, averting his eyes to avoid Isabel’s questioning gaze. The situation must seem incomprehensible to her and she probably thought that he was not entirely on board. But if she had known what an exhilarating game she was witnessing and her role in it, her judgement would probably have been even more disparaging. Luckily she located her book, lying on the shelf next to the balcony door, loaded with a microwave, a small stereo, pots, pans, a big blue tin can and other random things. Without further ado, she took it and left immediately, making it very clear that she regretted having interrupted this scene.

Glad to be rid of her gaze, he stored the dishes in the cupboards, directed by Franziska, who told him what belonged where, and, without thinking, wiped over the sink after the frothy water had drained away, as he usually did when cleaning.

Franziska was satisfied with him, “You've done a nice job,” he felt like a small child being praised for his virtue. And that’s exactly how her words were meant. He hung the dry cloth over the handle of the oven again and was apparently discharged, for she rose with the regrettable words that unfortunately he still had an awful lot to learn. Her blue sneakers made her steps silent and smooth as she showed him to the door. Was that it now? Some dishes and you're done? He tried not to let on to his disappointment. What did he expect? That his dreams would all come true? Dreams come true in fiction, not in reality. Or do they?

As he stood outside in the stairwell, she smiled promisingly, “Call me tomorrow night, 9:00 on the dot!” Again, it sounded like an order , not a request. Before he could answer, the door was gently pulled into the lock.

As if in a dream, he walked the few steps to his apartment. What on Earth was that all about? Had Franziska really enjoyed giving him orders, or was he reading too much into this strange encounter? Probably she just hadn't felt like doing the dishes and had been happy to find a willing specimen to do it for her. As far as he knew, she was not cold and calculating, but rather warm-hearted and friendly. Perhaps she really did have secret desires that would complement his. However, since he considered this to be about as likely as a visit from Martians, all hope was again lost, bar the tiniest glimmer. Maybe a miracle would happen, but he didn’t believe in miracles.