Pyrmont, 26 July (cont.)
I release her from the ropes and retrieve the plug; wash the sweat from her skin with a warm cloth. Traces left by the rope and the rest of her exhausted body, I massage with healing oil. She earned it. It had been wonderful to witness her surrender to lust without reservation. A surrender I unleashed in her, rewarding me with a cerebral orgasm.
I succeeded, despite her inexperience and the fear that often comes with it. But above all, it is to her credit, her guts, to jump into the deep end with me. During the massage, she falls into a restless sleep. It gives me the opportunity to send the letters she wrote and have lunch prepared.
Her diary lies next to the stack of letters, but I resist its temptation. For now, I assess her well enough without violating the privacy of her thoughts. When I return, she is still asleep, and I put clothes for her on the dressing table, before focusing on some letters I must write myself. It remains warm and stifling, but I want to know how she is when she awakes. A few hours later, the sun breaking through an overcast sky wakes her, hungry and in need of a toilet.
“I can’t help you with the latter, but I suggest we use the terrace to enjoy a late lunch. It may be warmer than your atelier, but there is a gentle breeze outside.”
She picks up the mask lying on the folded dress. “For me?”
“If you like,” I say, “I assume you want to remain anonymous.”
She holds the mask before her eyes in the vanity’s mirror. It is an elegant model made of white voile concealing her eyes and nose, with embroidered decorations in the thin translucent fabric. “Who is there to hide from?” she asks.
“With the weather as it is, we might run into residents seeking a breath of fresh air,” I say, and gather my papers. “They’re free to do so.”
“Your other whores, you mean.” The reproach is obvious, but her slight smile gives her away. It’s an act.
“Jealous?” I ask, equally playful. She puts the mask on the dressing table. “A little, maybe. They get paid for it.”
“You have my attention and interest, but if you prefer money...”
Grinning, she shows me the door. “Now go, oh great lover, unless you like to witness me visiting the toilet.”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” I say, and leave the room.
The terrace covers almost the entire width of the manor’s main building. It‘s also the roof of the gateway to the former fortress. Standing there offers you a view of the stone bridge over the wide moat that turns the estate into an island.
Boastful tales tell that the stronghold resisted every siege during the Thirty Years’ War, but there wasn’t much fortress left after. On the remaining ruins, previous owners commissioned the Baroque-styled Schloss.
The fortifications which now house the dungeons serve as its foundations. The schism in architectural styles fits in perfectly with the dual role of the estate, with a dark underworld supporting a pleasant facade. Not that the two worlds cannot mix.
When Milena and I arrive for lunch, several ladies and a young man are enjoying a good glass of wine and a faint breeze. We greet with a hand wave, but the terrace is wide enough to keep us separate from their lively conversation. The staff served our lunch on a table under a large parasol, and we recline next to each other.
“It’s nice to be outside again,” Milena says, filling her plate with the delicacies on offer. She nods to the young man in the group. “Is he staff or guest? He doesn’t look like he would have to pay for sex.”
Indeed, he has a pleasant appearance, dressed in simple trousers with his torso bared. “Ferdinand lives here,” I say. I take the wine bottle from the cooler and pour two glasses. “Interested?”
She chuckles and picks up the glass. “For now, I’m glad you’re letting me catch my breath. Are there many women among your ‘guests’?”
“There is one sitting next to me if I remember correctly,” I say, which earns me a scowl, “but of course, there are other ladies who visit the house for their pleasure. I think women, like men, have every right to enjoy their sins. Unfortunately, only a few dare, and they often wear masks like the one you’re wearing now. As for Ferdinand, he doesn’t really care. He is as dedicated to men as he is to women.”
“A real martyr for the cause, just like you apparently are,” she says and enjoys a bite of smoked salmon, washing it down with a sip of wine. “Are your whores here voluntarily to be screwed by your clientele?”
I sigh in exasperation. It’s a justified question, but the derogatory words she uses are not. “Listen, I won’t deny desperate circumstances can force people who work and live here to fulfil the role they play. Or that I sometimes manipulate them to do so. But in the end, they choose that role over the few alternatives they have. Everyone who visits the House of Seven Sins is free to leave whenever they want, on condition of secrecy. That goes for the guests, but also for the staff.”
She doesn’t react, just keeps eating in silence. I guess she suspects this isn’t the entire story. I know it isn’t.
“Yes, sometimes things go wrong,” I say. “When someone decides they’re old and wise enough for this work, and it’s the wrong decision. The risk you run when you play with intimate desires.”
“That goes for me as well,” she says.
“That goes for anyone who dares to live. Do you regret the choices you made so far?”
Her answer is as direct as her gaze. “No. At least not the choices you forced on me. But they frighten me.”
“You aren’t the person you thought you were, but you don’t know who you are now?” I ask.
“Yes, something like that. It feels that way,” she says. “I don’t recognise myself sometimes, how I react to things, to what you do to me. It scares the hell out of me. Not during our game, but when I look back on it.”
So her derogatory words weren’t meant for my staff, but for herself, comparing her actions to their work. Shame can return with a vengeance once you’re out of the game. I put an arm around her and kiss her on the cheek.
“For some time, dear Milena, this will remain so. Gradually, you will recognise the person you face in the mirror again. You took the leap. Now you have to wait and see where you end up.”
Grinning, she pokes me in the side. “Between the lions, apparently,” she says and nods at the company leaving the terrace, “with a Sybarite as a tamer.”
I laugh. The hedonism of ancient Sybaris was so legendary it outlived the city by centuries.
“The latter I can’t deny. But if I am anyone’s tamer, I’m yours. From the other animals in the pack, you have little to fear but much to learn.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was their testimonies that you read. They inspired you.”
It’s true, and she knows it. Whether she wants to accept it is another matter. “Don’t worry, you’re in good company. A brilliant young scientist from Vienna studies them as well.”
“Pleasant research, no doubt,” she says, “for him anyway. Surely also someone who comes over to do fieldwork?”
“No, he’s serious about unravelling the human mind. If he wants to come by and ask my staff questions, he’s welcome.”
“Well, I’ll admit it,” she says. “I’m curious about their experiences and how they deal with them. Although I’m not sure if I dare ask such personal questions.”
“A question often says more about you than the answer tells about the other,” I say. “It helps if you get to know them first. You’ll meet with them before we embark on a journey with part of the troupe.”
“On a journey?”
“Even though you learned to appreciate your dungeon, I never intended to lock you up for an entire month. As much as I enjoy your company, as Duke Von Anhalt Bernburg I have other obligations. Some of those obligations involve managing investments made by me and others. Most I can handle with letters and telegrams, but some matters require a personal conversation. Trust me, I’ll make sure it will be anything but boring.”
“With you as companion, that’s the last thing I’m afraid of,” she says, “but what if people see me with you in public when I’m supposed to take care of my great uncle’s estate?”
“That’s why you’re not going as yourself but incognito; a member of my entourage with a suitable identity. I have just the choice of roles that fit you like a glove. You can choose between acting as a servant or a courtesan apprentice.”
She shakes her head with a grin before considering her options. “I can play servant at home. Besides, the state of your tableware shows my talents don’t lie there. I’m your courtesan, anyway,” she says. With a weary sigh, she decides. “Very well then, your personal whore in training. Have you trained all your ‘staff’?” she asks, still grinning; the spectre of shame averted for now.
I chuckle. “You really overestimate my libido. Besides, I have my preferences. At the moment, I prefer you.” Rising to my feet, I offer her my hand. “Come, let’s start by introducing you to Yvette.”
“Yvette?”
“My dresser and couturier, responsible for the staff’s clothing. Besides a mask, you’ll need proper clothing and a stage name to remain incognito. Yvette takes care of the clothes. I leave the alias to your imagination.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Damian. Worth is driving me crazy with his totally impracticable designs for the Palace. Then everything I have to make for your pleasure trip with the girls; let’s not forget the usual work for the House and now this to top it all off?” With her long legs in high heels, Yvette strides ahead of us through her domain, wildly waving her arms.
“A whole fucking custom-made ensemble within two days.” Milena and I struggle to keep up with her, passing changing rooms left and right. The gangway is littered with open trunks filled with extravagant clothes and paraphernalia, ready to be packed for the journey. It looks like a bomb exploded in a department store.
We reach her workroom and with a thud, she slams the double doors behind us. Milena looks at me, startled. Yvette silences us with an elegant but resolute wave of her hand and closes her eyes. This is her space, her home, the place where she finds peace and quiet.
A room with a high ceiling and large windows, filled with mannequins adorned with creations in various stages of development. Work tables covered with drawings of designs and strewn with instruments and machines used to force unwilling materials into the right folds and sizes. Wall cabinets full of luxurious fabrics in all shades, drawers filled with haberdashery, and books with images of the latest fashions. It could be a chaos like the dressing rooms, but it isn’t. The overcrowded studio exudes an atmosphere of order and serenity.
Serenity, which Yvette seems to have regained when she turns to Milena. “I’m sorry, darling,” she says, and waves a condescending gesture at me, “but this character gets under my skin now and then, with what passes for planning,” she says, with a biting emphasis on the last word. “I don’t have to explain that to you, I guess.” Then she looks at me again. “Planning, Damian, look it up in a dictionary.”
I offer Yvette a friendly smile. “Let me try it. The Palace assignments aren’t that pressing. The official opening is a month away. During the first week, we don’t use everything you have to make. You can let that slide for now. As for the trip, we don’t need new items. We’re not going to perform in Paris or Berlin.” I gesture to Milena. “This lady is about the same size as Alice, I guess, so what you can’t make, you borrow from her collection.”
“It’s all in the details, Damian, you should know that.” Yvette sighs wearily and turns to Milena. “Let me have a look at you,” she says, studying Milena’s dress with disdain. “Those rags were his idea, I suppose?”
With Yvette towering over her, Milena stands a little lost, seeking my support.
“Don’t mind him, he is as useless as he is clueless,” Yvette says. She grabs a notebook and a tape measure. “Raise your arms, please?”
Milena follows the instructions, and Yvette takes her measurements in a business-like manner.
“Exactly the right proportions to make men’s heads spin. Even dressed in a burlap sack, they will chase you like little dogs. Do you have a name already?”
Milena shakes her head, turning red behind the mask.
“Then we’ll just stick with ‘darling’, shall we?”
Milena just nods, probably a little shaken by Yvette’s overbearing approach.
“Are you complimenting yourself because you can do magic with burlap, or her, because not even you can improve on her looks?” I ask, trying to deflect Yvette’s focus on Milena.
“Both, of course. Never be stingy with compliments, Damian. People are insecure enough as it is.” She turns to Milena. “You don’t need the mask here, love, he is lucky with what you offer and you certainly don’t need to be ashamed with me.”
“Well, that’s fashion for you. Every year another nonsensical attempt to improve on Mother Nature’s perfection,” I say, and I want to bite my tongue.
Yvette glares at me. “That’s low, even for you, Von Anhalt Bernburg. We aren’t all blessed with a dream figure like hers. For some of us, every improvement counts.”
She’s right. I am a blunt klutz. “Sorry, Yvette, my apologies.” I mean it. “Try to take it as a compliment that I just forget about it sometimes.”
She coolly looks away, kneels in front of Milena, and continues measuring.
“It’s all right. With your sense of fashion, you’ll never understand anyway. You wear clothes to hide your body, while my creations frame its beauty. If you don’t like my work, you can spend the winter playing outside naked. By the way, I need measurements for your new winter wardrobe. I think you’ve put on weight again.”
I answer her fake grin with an equally sincere hand kiss. “As if your creations offer any protection against the elements.”
“Armed with my fashion, you won’t have to enter the cold. They’ll carry you on their hands from one warm place to another. With the shoes you have in mind for her, she’ll have to, sadist.” Yvette stands up and hands them to me. High heels that can compete with Yvette’s pair.
“It’s not the shoe, it’s what it does to her stature,” I say.
Yvette sneers. “Say, you’re going to teach your mother how to fuck?” She snatches the shoes out of my hands in exchange for a teasing slap on my rear. “Now go, out with you. This is a girl thing. When we’re done, I’ll send her back.” I look at Milena to make sure she agrees. Her smirk tells me all I need to know.
To say that Yvette is not the sort of dresser I expect is putting it mildly. Tall and slender in insanely high heels, she scowls in front of us as we follow her down a corridor of messy dressing rooms. There is something coarse about her, masked by the elegance of her movements, her luxuriantly long hair, and her clothes. A lady like I imagine mannequins in Paris to be. She also speaks with an obvious French accent. Her sophisticated attitude isn’t reflected in the way she treats you like a little boy. You let her. I am a bit afraid of her, but in the end your banter is amusing and there is a mutual respect that suggests a close bond. Although the picture of you two sharing the bed strikes me as comical, the way she towers over you.
She is cordial towards me, carefully taking measurements she needs to assemble my new wardrobe. Even after she sent you away with a well-aimed slap on your bottom, she works me over with the ribbon without end. I didn’t know a person has so many dimensions. She touches me in the most intimate places, but in a matter-of-fact way, that doesn’t make me feel awkward.
Then she guides me into certain positions as if I were a living mannequin, to see how I move and how I stand, sit, and walk. It reminds me of the poses you taught me. In a strange way, I enjoy it, and as long as I push away the fantasy that you are measuring me, it calms and relaxes me.
When she finished measuring, she shows me around in her atelier. Wooden mannequins wear the most beautiful garments and accessories, some finished, others in promising stages of development. Stage outfits too: a nun’s habit or a soldier’s uniform, like we are backstage in the theatre. A brothel is like a theatre, I realise. An orderly theatre though, as Yvette labelled everything with first names, anagrams, and numbers. The anagrams refer to the clients, she confides. “Believe me, some of them I don’t even want to know who they are,” and she shows me a dress of a boarding-school girl. Startled, I wonder if there are any children here, but Yvette assures me there aren’t. “The youngest who lives here is Claire, but she’s definitely not a child anymore, trust me.”
She wants to know what I like, what I prefer to wear, what colours I favour, lets me feel fabrics, see examples, try on clothes. Challenging dresses with a tight fit that leave little to the imagination. Comfortable and casual creations that are more concealing, but no less sensual. I‘m like a child in a sweet shop allowed to choose anything it likes, with Yvette as the perfect friend to compliment and advise me. She has all the time in the world for me. “Better one thing done right than five things done wrong. You’re first on his dance card, after all.”
No doubt she saw the last traces of your ropes around my wrists and ankles, but she does not bring it up and I am not ashamed of them. I am, however, increasingly ashamed of my mask. Especially when during tea she reveals how she got to know you. How you recognised her talent when she earned her money as a ‘putain’ in the slums of Paris in self-made clothes. You didn’t judge her for who she was, and you made her who she is today possible. That you didn’t care she was baptized Yves and wanted to be Yvette. The latter comes as a disarming shock, yet it isn’t. It suits her.
After this revelation, my mask appears downright preposterous, and I take it off. She smiles with gratitude and without a word, she takes me to a room next to her studio. A small room, dedicated to a single creation. A sensational dress that she has not shown to anyone yet, and she believes is perfect for me. I’m not allowed to leave until I’ve tried it on.
The dress is uncomfortable at first. It pinches and wriggles in all the wrong places. She didn’t finish it yet, the whole back is open and exposed. Yvette adjusts the design with some pins, and it helps a little. Then she hands me the high-heeled shoes. Wearing them is like standing on my toes, just like Stand, one of the poses. When I do, the dress falls like it was meant to. Even without a corset, it fits like a second skin. Together with the shoes, it forces me into the right position, enveloping and supporting me.
Yvette turns a standing mirror towards me. “See? The proper outfit can embellish even a divine body like yours,” she concludes. I never considered my body divine, but the one I see in the mirror looks like a fallen angel.
“You opted for rags again?” I ask as Milena closes the dining room door behind her. She still wears the simple white dress. “No, Yvette only took measurements. She’ll have it finished the day after tomorrow, she says.”
“I’m curious.”
She chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll like it. Yvette makes beautiful things, even if they aren’t very comfortable.”
She’s been in the studio all afternoon, which doesn’t surprise me. I’m quite astonished she’s in time for dinner. A simple, light meal awaits us when we take our seats. We have the dining room to ourselves. The large glass patio doors are open, allowing it to be sultry rather than stifling. A noiseless flickering thunderstorm in the distance and candles on the table provide light in the otherwise dark room.
“Where is your mask?” I ask as I pour our glasses.
She flinches. Completely forgotten. I smile and hand her a glass. “I’m glad you got along so well,” I say, and we toast.
“How did you recognise her talent for making such things?” she asks.
“I paid her to strip for me. Someone who can transform her body like that, without financial means and with homemade clothes, must have an incredible talent.”
“So, you and her... You two have...” but she remains stuck in amazement.
I finish her sentence. “Fucked is the word you search. Yes, all the foreplay made me horny. To her, I was a paying customer. Besides, she was fond of me. With this estate at my disposal, I pulled her out of the misery that Paris became for her.” I take a sip of wine and let her chew on my answer. She doesn’t grimace at it, which is to her credit.
“Do you fancy men?” she asks, as casually as she is capable. Acting is not one of her talents.
“If they look like a beautiful sensual woman, yes,” I say with a chuckle, but continue more seriously: “Generally, I prefer women, but I shared beds with men I considered attractive.”
That silences her, save for the very telling furtive glances in my direction. She won’t be into women.
“I can’t imagine anything like that,” she finally says.
“How so? Our tastes may differ, but I think you appreciated the sculpture with the marble men. Even though it depicted a scene seen as perverse.”
“No, I mean the idea of sharing a bed with another woman.”
“Don’t focus on the difference between men and women, but see them as human beings. Each with their own kind of sensual beauty,” I say.
“That’s what I understand,” she says, “and I can also see the beauty in a woman, but it doesn’t turn me on.” I shrug and turn my attention to my plate. “That’s possible. Everyone has their own preferences. Exciting others is what excites me. Someone who surrenders to lust because of what I do to them. Or having them do.”
“As long as you are in control.”
“Yes, most of the time,” I say.
“What if you let go,” she asks, “surrender to someone else?”
I ponder on her question along with a delicious piece of salmon. Does she want to switch roles? She might, after our agreement ends. Even though I had fun playing a slave, I could never fully surrender to the part. It can’t hold a candle to the pleasure the role of master provides. “Sometimes it’s nice, like when you gave me a blowjob in the bathtub,” I say, “but I was a pawn for others too often, I think. To submit is not a desire I cherish.”
“I apparently do.” Sagging in her chair, she stares at her plate. “I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”
“It is what it is, Milena,” I say, “and as long as you set boundaries, you are safe.”
“I used to know my boundaries. Now I doubt if I even have any.”
Doubt and fear caused by navigating uncharted waters. She may sail a ship without a port, but she has to understand she’s still at the wheel. I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. “Milena, everyone has limits, including you. I’m sure you can imagine assignments where you say, ‘fuck it’. Just because I haven’t reached your limits yet doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Discovering them is part of the game we play.”
“A fortnight ago I’d say ‘fuck this’ to things you make me do.”
“A fortnight ago, you were only under the assumption that you knew your limits. At least now you know those assumptions were nonsense. Let me ask you this, the things I make you do, do you enjoy them?”
“You know they do perfectly well.”
“Are they the things you recognise from fantasies you suppressed and didn’t dare share with anyone?”
She doesn’t answer, but her blush says it all.
“Are you hurting anyone with it?” I ask.
She stares into the distance and ponders. “Myself perhaps,” she says and smiles at me, “my salvation? If I tell the complete story in one sitting at my next confession, the good father won’t survive.”
“Your concern for the health of your confessor is to be commended, but seriously. I may be the one to whom you submit as a slave, but my role, my satisfaction and the pleasure you give me with it depend on what you allow me to do. It is a game. An exciting and scary game, because of the risks involved. But not the risk of me forcing you across a boundary you can’t handle. Because if I do, I want you to use the word of grace.”
“So, what risks do you see?”
“That we forget it’s a game.”
I let go of her hand and we drink our last glass of wine in silence. A pleasant silence, with both of us lost in our own thoughts. She affects me more than she should. Much more. I enjoy what she offers me, her body, her intelligence and her humour. But she shares those delights with other ladies I encounter. What really touches me is her courage to burn all the bridges she believes in behind her and give in to her desires. And the trust she gives me in doing so. A trust I’m not worthy of.
“Come,” I say, when we’ve emptied our glasses, “tomorrow I’ll give you a day off, but now it’s time to play.”
It remains a mystery to me. One moment I’m afraid of what’s going on, the next I’m trailing you back to my cell like a lovesick hussy. Although I enjoy your company as an equal, a slight shift in your demeanour is all it takes to throw myself naked at your feet again. When you insert the plug, all my doubts disappear. The rush of wanting to do anything you desire returns.
You make me Stand and Present on the mat, while you blindfold me, something I am used to by now. Then you caress my skin with rope. Rough, tickling, and with soft drumming when taut rope slides against taut rope. With undivided attention, you weave a pattern around my body, binding me in a corset of rope. With every binding that tightens, my lust increases.
Who would have thought that a rope could excite me so much? It is also the way you do it, relaxed but careful and meticulous. Your lips kiss my skin at points where you tie a knot next. My control slips, I surrender to you, and as if by magic, I follow your commands. I become a puppet controlled by your voice.
Stand, Kneel, Rug, Floor, Chair, Wheel, Bow, Offer, Down, Table, Serve. With every movement, the ropes chafe my skin. It makes me horny and fuzzy in my head, and I mix up poses.
You no longer correct my mistakes with your voice, but by delivering slaps with your flat hand. When you hit me lightly, it’s quite nice, but when you hit me harder, it briefly causes genuine pain with a vicious sting. After each painful stroke, a warm glow follows.
I’m in a constant dilemma, between wanting to move away from the pain and enduring what you do, making you proud of me. It is nice to know you call the shots now, to be subjected to your dominance.
Finally, while I am bathing in sweat, you make me kneel on the mat. You take off the blindfold, offer me water to drink and caress me. You smile with satisfaction, which to my surprise fills me with pride. Then you tie my wrists behind my back to the corset and command me to go Down. As soon as your gaze changes, your voice shifts to commanding, and your hand grabs my hair leading me to bend over, the excitement surges and I want to be used again. With the plug in my ass, I can’t get enough of your cock in my mouth or my cunt. I don’t have to wait for long.
You drive your cock inside me. Trapped in your rope, I can't stop you. Nor do I want to, not even when your flat hand smacks hard against my buttocks. Lust courses through my body. The spanking you deliver is welcome now. Do I like pain? No, but my body is aching for intense stimulation, for any kind of touch. And you provide, when you violently ravage my buttocks, my nipples and my thighs while fucking me.
In those moments, I really lose all control, don’t know whether I’m groaning or panting. I tremble with horniness, tension, excitement, desire. Intense desire for you. You say I can come and immediately the orgasm surges through me. I have no say in it. My body answers to you, not to me.
You lift me by my hair and take off the preservative. You force me to kneel upright and tease me by not feeding me your dick right away. As humiliating as this is, I can’t keep from making pleading sounds. I want you to know that I long for your cock in my mouth.
You want proof of my devotion. As you lead me on my knees with your pole in my mouth where you want me. As you hang casually in the armchair, allowing me to suck you off. As you count how long I can last deprived of air, with your cock deep down my throat. As you end up fucking my mouth as my cunt, with your balls hitting my chin.
I let you do it, let you humiliate me, because the lust in your eyes turns me on without end. Even more so, when you pour your seed deep into my throat with a growl and pull back to spray the next load over my face. I greedily lick it from my lips. Your orgasm is more important to me at that moment than my own climax. It is proof that you also give up all control and let yourself go.
When you loosen the ropes and let me lie on the mat so you can wash and care for me, I continue to enjoy your closeness, your tenderness, your kisses. You kiss so well. It’s nice to linger in the small world of our game, where only you and I exist.
You end the game with the order to return. Yes, now I can, although my mind resists. It is always strange, like I’m leaving a different reality and you haul me back to the real world. I am broken, thoroughly fucked and very, very satisfied.
I am exhausted. Playing the game with Milena is addictive. Again and again, I allow her to seduce me with her unbridled devotion. Even now, when I raise the stakes by hurting and humiliating her.
These elements can increase lust, but not for everyone. Pride can turn lust into disgust, but for Milena it doesn’t, it just helps her to hold on. She wants to prove to me she can handle what I demand, thus paving the way for the intoxication that pain and discomfort can bring.
I revel in watching her struggle under my command until she succumbs to her rush. She makes me struggle as well, knowing I can do anything I want to her, while balancing it with what she can bear. When she cannot contain her release, I grant her permission. Together we enjoy her surrender to vulnerability and my illusion of absolute control. My orgasm satiates the sadist in me. All I want now is tenderness and gratitude. We need a day off.
