Pyrmont, 27 July
ALIAS
ALISA
LAISA
TABULA RASA
SARA LA BUTA
LARA BATULA TUBALA
LARA BAUTAL
LARA AISSAT LABAU
Lara Aissat-Labau
“Lara Aissat-Labau,” Milena says. We walk down the long avenue in the park towards the bathhouse that gives the town its moniker. It is off in the distance, gleaming in the sunlight like a giant wedding cake made of marble. On Mondays, the sanatorium is closed for ‘maintenance’, which means I reserved it for residents of the House to relax after a demanding weekend.
Milena still doubts whether she wants to walk ‘naked among whores’, as she calls it. Her resentment is understandable, but hopefully she will adjust her attitude a little, after meeting the ladies and gentlemen concerned. She already chose her alias.
“Lara the whore would do, you know. Usually, contact with guests doesn’t go beyond the first name,” I say. She doesn’t respond. I can’t read her eyes behind the voile mask she’s wearing. “Does that name have any special meaning for you?”
“No, not really. It’s more of a play on words,” she says. “Is Yvette there too?”
“No, unfortunately. Yvette is too fond of her illusion to expose herself. Besides, I think she’s busy preparing for our journey. As am I this morning. I’ll join you after lunch. We can also go in the afternoon, when I am available.”
“No need for that. Your whore-in-training can do without her pimp for a morning.” It sounds acerbic, but her smile proves otherwise. “To be frank, my body could do with a day’s rest. The bathhouse seems the perfect place for it.”
“You’re not the only one. Monday is a day off for us. The House is always busy on Sundays. Apparently, many believers think that if God takes a day off, they can indulge.”
She laughs. “Many devout churchgoers visit your house?”
“More than you would expect based on the tenets of the church. Depending on your interpretation of the Bible of course.”
“Love thy neighbour as thyself? Isn’t that your motto?”
I nod. “For example. Or the fact that Jesus had little issue with prostitution.”
“I honestly doubt that he would feel at home in your brothel.”
“I think he would appreciate current practices more than the massacres the fort was originally built for,” I say. “Besides, according to The New Testament, Jesus was quite competent with a whip. And the writers of his passion were downright sadists.”
“You are clearly beyond redemption by faith,” she concludes with drooping shoulders.
“Oh, I believe that Jesus existed and taught sensible values. But being a son of God raised from the dead killed my suspension of disbelief. Although immaculate conception fits the story of a god with sadistic tendencies. None of the joys and all the burdens.
“Children are not just burdens. Apart from noble obligations, I wanted them. You get a lot in return.”
“I wonder if Mary felt the same when her son went rioting in the temple.”
She shivers. “I don’t want my children to end up like her son. Of everybody I left behind, I miss them the most. It makes a month quite long, despite all your distractions. And far too short, for what will happen when I return home?” She drops her head.
“That’s between you and your husband.” I put an arm around her as we carry on walking. “Whatever decisions you end up making will be better informed than before we met.”
We meet other people strolling, whom I greet politely with a nod. Pious citizens of Pyrmont, apparently, for they try their best not to bat an eye at us. Town’s residents familiar with the reputation of the masked ladies from the castle. Milena cringes a little.
“Clearly people who should read the New Testament again,” I say. “Are you religious?”
“Raised in the faith all right. Didn’t you notice the angel in my painting?”
“Sure, but the female figure in the foreground captured most of my attention. Religious symbolism doesn’t mean you prefer life after death. Shacking up with the capricious Almighty for eternity doesn’t sound like good times to me. To you?”
She grins. “No, it doesn’t. Well, I believe in being good to your fellow man and trying to make the best of it. For yourself and for others. Faith provides a moral basis that allows people to live together in peace.”
“That’s why I’m such an immoral dog,” I say.
“It’s not that bad, I think. Not everyone needs religion to attain their ethics. It helps, though.” She grins at a private joke, hesitates for a moment, but decides not to share it. I keep my biting comments to myself. For some prelates, I hope hell does indeed exist. “I won’t deny that the Church and its minions shaped my ideas of right and wrong,” I say, keeping it neutral.
“Like most people, probably,” she says. “Our parents raised us with it. I like to visit churches, even outside of services. They’re often beautiful, filled with works of art, created with love and attention over many years by nameless artisans. I love the peace and quiet there.” Again, that hesitation before she continues. “It puts me in a mood where I can really find myself. Or during Mass, the singing. To disappear into the crowd for a moment and perform beautiful music together.” She glances at me before lowering her gaze. Caught, despite her mask. Something about churches moves her, but she won’t share.
“And you? Do you still believe in anything?” she asks after a brief silence.
Perhaps I can give her a push in the right direction, and I choose my words carefully.
“I certainly don’t believe in a sadistic supreme being, who created us with desires, and then issued rules forbidding us to give in to them,” I say, which gains me a shocked stare. I am right. Too right, because she routinely steers the conversation in a different direction.
“Rules are necessary, aren’t they? How else can you live with others? Even in your brothel, there are rules and laws. Doesn’t your staff do as you say?”
I give in and let it rest for now. Besides, she brings one of my hobbyhorses into play.
“I pay the ‘staff’ to give up the liberties they would enjoy as guests. For me, liberty isn’t being free of sin, but being free to sin. Sin as decreed by the Church, that is, because I’m not against morals enabling peaceful society. You only need three rules: be honest, try not to harm others and clean up your mess. I know from experience it’s hard enough to abide by those. All other rules serve only one purpose: keeping the local potentate in the saddle by exploiting fear. Fear of the unknown, fought with superstition or by cultivating nationalism and xenophobia. And fear of yourself by imposing laws and morals contrary to your nature. The hatred and frustration that you sow with this fear will always lead to a devastating harvest of envy, lust, pride, anger, gluttony, and greed. War.”
“The six deadly sins? Shouldn’t there be seven?”
With a sigh, I gaze into the distance. “The seventh is committed by those who let it happen. Nobles, administrators and church fathers too lazy to find a better solution. I’m not talking about your husband or other diplomats I know, because they really try. But no matter how much quiet diplomacy you throw at it, I’m afraid it’s procrastination.” I try to read her eyes behind the mask. “Sorry, this is your day off. Not a day to suffer my lecture in politics and ethics.”
With a smile, she reassures me. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind knowing the man behind the sadist a little better. It’s nice to know that reducing me to a needy slave is not your only passion.” She presses herself against me with her arm around my waist.
I chuckle. “Now you are selling me short. I also enjoy other fine arts.”
“Yeah, as long as the subjects get you excited, right?” she says and grabs my crotch with her free hand. I catch my breath and she lets go of me. “I can’t deny part of my collection touches me there. During our journey, there will be ample time for other entertainment, though.”
“Not too much time, I hope?” she asks. “Where will the journey actually take us?”
“That remains a surprise.” We have arrived at the large entrance door of the bathhouse. “Well then, do you dare to enter the lion’s den?”
I kiss you goodbye and enter the bathhouse. I don’t want you to see me as an anxious prude. Besides, I really need the leisure time provided by the spa. Time to think about what I want when this month is over.
In the changing room, I hesitate again. Most of yesterday’s traces are gone, but any initiate knows what my collar implies, and there are only initiates here today. I decide to wear a bathrobe and see what happens. I leave my mask behind, it would only make me stand out more than I already do. A face red like a tomato it is.
When I enter the large central room with the swimming pool, it’s empty. Voices carry from the Turkish bath. Men and women together? It shouldn’t surprise me. I walk to the entrance and secretly listen to animated conversations about everyday things. Everyday things for them, at least. A customer who couldn’t get it up. The ointment to use if they fucked you anally too roughly. A discussion about the best way to give someone a blowjob. But also about normal things: the poor summer weather, the upcoming tour and dance exercises they apparently have to do.
“You must be the new one,” says someone behind me. I’m startled. Blushing even harder, I turn around, caught. A naked young woman with short hair smiles at me kindly.
“Don’t worry, we won’t eat you,” she assures me. I am speechless. If Yvette perceives me as a goddess, I wonder in which class she puts this lady. She asks if I already have a name and I stammer ‘Lara’. She introduces herself as Alice. I can’t help smiling. Yvette was right. You really don’t have a clue about sizes if this is the Alice whose dresses I’m supposed to share.
“Come, I’ll introduce you to the others,” she says as if we’ve known each other for years and she takes my hand to lead me inside. If I don’t feel like talking, I don’t have to, she says; after all, we’re here for our relaxation. Astonished, I allow myself to be led. I am not into women, but this lady could make me reconsider. She looks familiar, as if I’ve met her before. A salon in Berlin? I cannot place her, and she doesn’t seem to recognise me from elsewhere either.
My introduction is embarrassing. I’m blushing like there is no tomorrow, but because of the steam everybody is, so fortunately I don’t stand out. At least they don’t react to it. I disrobe, take a seat, and the conversation continues where it left off. It’s a motley crew of mainly women and a few men. Thick, thin, tall, short, red, brown and blonde. Or bald, like one man. There is even an African, his dark skin decorated with scars as symbols. But mostly ordinary people. Also, a greater variety of ages than I expected. I am certainly not the oldest here.
I see what you mean with everyone being beautiful in their own way. Nobody here is forced to pretend something they aren’t. It gives them a self-assurance that makes them attractive. Alice is right. The conversations are personal and sometimes involve intimate details, but only if you indicate you want to talk about it. Like with Yvette, actually. It’s the etiquette in this company. There is some banter, but never really mean.
I don’t know all the phrases, but I get a picture of daily life in your brothel. It’s not all pleasant. They have enough to complain about, but you obviously take care of your staff. No one gives the impression to be a forced member of your household.
As the ‘new one’, they leave me be, apart from a few pleasantries. A respite I can use well. The pampering steam bath is more than welcome for my aching body, as is the tingling vapour spring for which this spa is famous. When I meet new ‘colleagues’, I greet them with a friendly smile. Would my husband’s whore be amongst them? The term doesn’t fit anymore, and it’s not something I want to concern myself with either. I am too shy to start a conversation, anyway. I rather enjoy being lazy, given how demanding the last few days have been.
After lunch in the interior courtyard, some ladies leave to practise a new dance, while you enter naked. You look around searching for me, but you’re distracted by the dancers teasing you and don’t immediately see me. It gives me the chance to have a good look at you. You are not a masculine man, rather boyish and slender; not growing a moustache or beard contributes to that illusion. Only your first grey hairs give away the twelve years that lie between us. You are not tall either. I am of average height and wearing Yvette’s high heels, I can probably look you straight in the eye. You refuse to wear medals, but the battles you survived left their mark on your slightly toned skin. Two thin white stripes on your back and three small stars on your thigh. The only mars on your body, as your pugilism defines muscle groups that aid an artist to portray movement and action in a work. But your most attractive feature is your self-assured ease, even when naked.
I allow you to find me and wave at you, because I missed you a little. Your searching frown turns into a cheerful smile when you see me, and it’s nice to have that effect on you. You’re good company, even when you are not taking or using me, and we enjoy different baths together. You can talk about anything and everything, you listen attentively to my worries, and you can make me laugh. I have no qualms about telling you exactly what I enjoyed, what excited me and what I’m curious about in the stories you allowed me to read. Or what I disliked and turned me off. Risky, of course, to give you any ideas. I will undoubtedly regret it. I can’t resist, I want to share this with you. Who else should I do it with?
Everything is so effortless with you, so obvious. It’s easy to keep a conversation going while I don’t pretend to be someone else. The silences that sometimes occur are pleasant, not embarrassing. However nice the submissive rush is, this is also a pleasure. And necessary, because that rush demands a lot from me. Finally, we end the afternoon with a wonderful massage by two men who studied their craft thoroughly. My goodness, it does wonders for me.
“The golden rain doesn’t appeal to you?” We sit languidly in a box of the small theatre in the castle’s dungeons. On the stage, dancers are busy rehearsing to the rhythmic accompaniment of a large drum. She picked up the term ‘golden rain’ in the bathhouse and demanded me to explain.
“If you ask me to draw one for you, I have no problem with it. In bloom it is a beautiful tree,” she says and looks at me with one eyebrow raised menacingly, “but if you intend to give me one, it’s the way to provoke my words of grace, believe me.”
I chuckle. “I believe you believe that.”
“Damian, seriously, I’m warning you.”
I wave it away. “Don’t worry about it. As yet, I haven’t found a way to combine arousal with urination.”
She shrugs and looks at the stage. “Don’t worry, as yet I’m not bored one bit,” then, more gently, “but it would be nice to know when you wish to surprise me with your endless inventiveness.”
I nod and put my hand on her shoulder. “I agree.”
Fortunately, the weather is not as oppressively hot as yesterday, and the dungeons are pleasantly cool. Which does not prevent the dancers from working up a sweat presenting the Cancan. Not a spectacle that excites me either, even though they try their best. The dance is a craze in Paris and there are plenty of guests who appreciate this burlesque entertainment. One of them asked me to arrange a performance at a gala he is organising. This show seems appropriate enough to spice things up while giving no one a heart attack.
Milena looks at me in surprise when the dancers finally leave the stage. “Come on, men are turned on watching this? A bit of leg and underwear waving?”
“Whether it’s horny is not for me to say. Tastes differ,” I say. “It’s harder than you think, though. They’ve practised for a long time.”
I think I can dance a lot more enticing than that. I pop it out before I know it. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Of course, I may show it to you. Fortunately for you alone in the otherwise empty theatre. With a belly full of nervous butterflies, I walk onto the stage. Behind me, you close the curtain and I am enveloped in a world of dark red velvet. You take a seat in the side wing and switch on a metronome.
My dance starts of a little clumsy. I try to imagine and imitate the movements of the others, but I can’t do it. Oh, this is so awkward. I try to be swayed by the rhythm, but my simple dress impedes my sensuality instead of emphasising it. This is not the way. I stop and take off the dress; it just hampers me. Naked and with my eyes closed, I try to concentrate on the loud ticking allegretto of the metronome.
I fall back on what I can do. Ballet class back in the day. Graceful and refined, that works better, even if it won’t really excite you. It’s been a long time since I last danced, but it returns quickly and your position training made me flexible. The metronome is pounding like a heartbeat and my confidence grows. I can lose myself in the dance. A dance where I also give the poses a place, the gradual transition from one to the other, all the ways I offer my body. As if by itself, it ends in a stylised version of movements that I make when you fuck me, shocks that go through my body when you are inside me and allow me to come.
I end up in front of you, Down, panting from exertion and sweat, my forehead against the floor, my palms open at your feet. Tense and horny, but above all content. I gave you the best I could offer right now.
I am stunned. Is there something she cannot do? Or have I fallen for her, seeing more allure than there is? Which is dangerous and a reason to wrap up the whole affair. Because then the game threatens to become reality, for me, that is. I can see she is a decent amateur as a dancer. It’s her choreography, inspired by the poses and sex, which gives new meaning to ballet as pornography for the elite. I halt the metronome and let her recover from the exertion.
“Sit up, you’ve made your point,” I say. Slowly she sits, making a face and sticking her tongue out at me.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say and get her a towel and a glass of water. “I admit this was more arousing than the Cancan. Now tell me, how many dancers will perform your act before a full audience?”
She takes the towel and empties the glass. “Few. Even if you’d find a venue to present it. I know that too.”
I drop to my haunches and face her. “Not that I don’t admire your guts to do this for me. That I found it compelling and that I now have an enormous desire to fuck you until you climax, shaking all over. I’ve arranged other entertainment though, because I promised you a day off. At the moment, that promise hurts me more than it hurts you.”
You take me to your bedroom. I never imagined what I would find there, but it’s an ordinary room. Well, ordinary, it’s big, tastefully decorated with a beautiful Titian on the wall, an enormous fireplace and a huge bed. I laugh when I see the bed. Despite all the sex we enjoyed, we never used that most obvious of places. Apparently, we will not change this tonight either.
You allow me my private joke and have a small gift for me. You considered my doubts and fears. You give me the plug, as a pendant, to the ribbon with which you often blindfolded me. The key that determines when I am your slave. I’m speechless for a moment, even though I know your gift is a symbolic gesture. I’m supposed to follow your command after all, even outside the game. It is the intention that counts and moves me. You put it around my neck, and I feel like putting it on right away and offering myself, but I am also curious about the other entertainment you promised.
First, I have to take a bath. Like the bedroom, the adjoining bathroom is large and well-lit. A large bathtub dominates the room, decorated with white flower motives that return in the other fixtures and furniture. You drew a bath just for me, because you’ve spent enough time in the water this afternoon. Besides, you don’t want the temptation to break your promise. I can’t resist teasing you by moving in the most seductive way possible, aided by the many mirrors showing every angle of my body as I wash away the dried sweat. With success, cause your eyes burn with lust watching me, and you joke that this will give you every reason to pay me back in full tomorrow. I hope it’s true.
Back in the bedroom, I lie down next to you on the bed. Between us is a tray with an odd, long pipe and a tea light. Opium, I think at first. I’ve tried it once as a diversion, as laudanum. It made me blissfully relaxed but above all sleepy. This is different, you promise. Not morphine, but dia-morphine, a much less addictive derivative, discovered by an English acquaintance of yours.
I’ve never smoked before, and you show me how to heat the pipe with the tea light. My first puff causes a coughing fit, but the second puff is better and something changes, although I cannot define it. You tell me to hold my breath for as long as possible with the third one. I do, and something grows inside me. I am overwhelmed by nothingness, a warm bubble of pleasure that fills my head and clears it. I grow fearful, afraid that it will be too much for me. You notice this and hold me tightly against you, kiss me softly and comfort me with sweet words, and it reassures me. I adjust to the sensation, and with another puff the intoxication is complete.
It is hard to describe. I have nothing to describe the haze with, for I am no longer there. I am empty, filled only with pure, reasonless happiness. Can’t think anymore, can’t move, no worries, no thoughts. My body glows, is numb. Then the intense haze fades and I can react again, but I still feel great, happy, comfortable. Heaven exists, I am visiting it. It is warm there, very warm. Time freezes.
When I lie back on the bed, it is as if I am floating. Pleasant, but it also makes me a little nauseous. It doesn’t bother me, like your cock deep in my throat doesn’t bother me anymore. I cry without tears out of sheer happiness. An endlessly prolonged orgasm without peaks or valleys and with no effort. Everything blurs. As time passes again, the debilitating haze wears off and disappears, along with the nausea.
Unfounded happiness and the warm glow remain, and I am languid and weak, only wanting to lie in your arms, to be touched by you, to touch you. For me it is similar to what I feel in my submissive rush, but for you it is different, at least you’re different. Sweeter, you hug me; we share tender kisses. By now it is hours later, and we are both tired. It is time to sleep, but not before you give me one last assignment: to suck you awake. Which brings a smile to your slut’s mouth.
