Pyrmont, 28 July

The next morning, I wake up dozing, and the blissful intoxication of yesterday is still pleasantly present in the background, although my thoughts are not entirely coherent. There was something important. Then I notice you lying next to me, and I am wide awake. At least in my head, my body has other ideas. I have to relieve myself. I freshen up in the bathroom and insert the plug. Wearing the plug, fatigue, and doubt no longer play a role and I am your slave, your slut, your toy.

Back in the bedroom, you’re fortunately still asleep, and I slowly pull the sheets away to reveal an impressive morning erection. Not a challenge, but it’s nice to fill my mouth with your shaft and push it against the back of my throat, that opening all yours as well. When your fingers weave into my hair to guide me, I know you are awake, and I look up at you.

It’s wonderful to see you enjoying yourself, to know that you appreciate me, even if you are still half drunk with sleep. It’s even better when you let me rub my clit while you enjoy my mouth, until I’m close to orgasm. Before I come, you tell me to get Down. As you put on your preservative, I press my head against the soft mattress and offer my ass and cunt for you to use. Once you fill my cunt, I beg to come, but you make me wait. I wait, holding back as your cock pounds inside me again and again, hitting the right spots each time, causing waves of pleasure to flow through me, vague echoes of yesterday’s heavenly feeling. Less intense but also less passive and therefore more delicious.

For a moment, I am afraid that you will not give permission, but I’m allowed. Relieved, I let myself be carried by a few more thrusts before I orgasm. Perhaps just as nice is your seed, which you squirt all over me. Did you come again a little later? I don’t know anymore. While you collapse on the bed, I am absolutely not ready to come back from my submissive rush. You don’t need me to. Kneeling, I may clean your cock with my tongue.

-=-

I wake up earlier than Milena but keep myself asleep when she stirs. She goes to the bathroom and the sound of gurgling water makes it painfully clear I should also use the toilet. Has she forgotten her assignment? Which wouldn’t surprise me. Smoking morphine has many boons but is a blight on your memory. The assignment I gave her is proof of that, for a previous experience with such surprise wasn’t pleasant.

When she returns from the bathroom, my worries turn out to be unfounded, and she carries out her assignment diligently, followed by relaxed sex. Just like when I play the game with other, more experienced partners. Carefree, no pressure to perform. Except for the pressure in my bladder. Later, when we are enjoying breakfast, she raises the tension again.

“Why don’t you ever take me anally?” she asks, as I take a sip. I aptly spit my mouth full of spritzer all over the bed. Without blinking an eye, she continues buttering her toast.

“Where is that prudish lady I met a few weeks ago?” I ask, using the sheets to wipe the spatters of white wine and fruit juice. We lie naked on the bed, me with my back against the headboard, while she lies prone towards the foot of the bed, facing the tray with our brunch.

She looks over her shoulder and laughs with false delight as she watches me wrestle with the remains of my drink. “She’s not as squeamish as you are, apparently. I’ve never been that prudish in my unspoken fantasies. But if you want me to act the whore, I must also speak the whore.”

“You are apparently an observant student if this results from a few hours of bathing with my staff.”

“Sure, but answer my question.”

I slide my hand between her butt cheeks until my finger rests on her star. She inhales sharply, her buttocks tighten for a moment, and she closes her eyes. Then she relaxes again. “The plug occupies that spot when I fuck you.” I remove my hand.

She sighs, rolls onto her side, and squints at me. “Ha ha. Those are your own rules.”

“Our rules,” I say, “the rules of our game.”

“Your rules, because you made them up. That I try to abide by them is another thing,” she says. “Don’t you like the Greek game?”

“I do,” I say. “Have you any experience with it?”

“No, but it appears often in the testimonies and in conversations of your staff. Like something special,” she says, then hesitates, lowering her gaze. “For the customer, anyway.”

“Like your husband and his lady.”

She frowns, but shuts up and nods. That memory also plays its part in her curiosity, of course.

“It is special,” I say, “especially if you’ve never done it before. Is it something you long for?”

“I don’t know. It’s not a boundary, I guess,” she says, thinking it over.

“For me, it was at first,” I say.

She eyes me with piqued curiosity, her introduction to anal sex no longer an issue, not now that mine has come up.

I shake my head. “Obviously, I’m not the only party involved, so I can’t share details with you. Although I’ve crossed that boundary with others, as far as you’re concerned, I still think it’s something for a special occasion. It’s a form of defloration, after all.”

“Slightly less painful, I would hope,” she says. Playfully, she stretches and shifts so we lie face to face. “Without naming names, how many noblemen and women did you share the bed with as a bohemian?”

“Fewer than you think. As said, they were affairs best avoided.”

“Perhaps.” She lays against me, using my chest as her pillow. “I just wondered if they fell for you playing the cello or the other game you love so much.”

“Artists often have an edge, no matter what other game they play. But I learned to play our game during my time in the army.”

I hear her chuckle while the tips of her fingers roam my belly. “The army plays sadistic games like that?”

“I won’t deny that military men have a reputation for commanding and obeying, but there is little sex involved. The rules of the game as we play it, I learnt from a mistress whose name does not matter.”

The stroking of my belly stops. She turns around and looks at me, leaning on her hands. “The name may not matter, the rest does. Tell me.”

At your orders, Commander. I get up and sit with crossed legs. “In the army, I was a courier and, because of my background, suited to deliver messages between high-ranking figures. I knew how to behave myself at court, so to speak.”

“Not yet a jester, then.”

“No, that of a well-behaved conscripted petty officer. I was a strange case. As a conscript, I couldn’t be an officer, as someone of lower nobility I couldn’t be a common soldier. I ended up as an errand boy: second lieutenant of the diplomatic corps.”

A smile plays on her lips. “You traded in your cello for a uniform to woo the ladies.”

“Not so much. Many uniforms more impressive than mine walked around in Prussia in those days. It wasn’t a terrible job, though. The army in peacetime is a tragically dull affair. At least I could travel freely with the mail I delivered.”

“From beautiful troubadour to brave herald.” She laughs at the idea. The picture of me in uniform obviously pleases her. Or it’s the idea of ordering me around.

I offer her a wry smile. “I suppose so. It wasn’t the reason I attracted the attention of a noble lady. Let’s call her Louisa for convenience.” Wilhelmina Frederica Louisa Charlotte Marianne of Orange-Nassau is such a mouthful, and it is not up to me to reveal her secrets. But the important role she played in my life is hard to deny. “Louisa fell into disgrace because she lost her heart to her chamberlain instead of her unfaithful husband. This resulted in a scandal and an ugly divorce. However, a sizeable inheritance enabled her to retain her independence and her chamberlain.”

“I wonder where you fit into that story. She seems happy with her lover.”

“And at least thirty years my senior. But Louisa and I had common interests. Her own family disowned her, but her in-laws wanted to rekindle the ties after several years. However, she was not interested. Now that she tasted her freedom, the corset of court life was not worth restoring her reputation. She did, however, maintain the correspondence, always with the request to have the confidential letters delivered by me.”

“What did you have in common?”

“A love of the fine arts, travelling. An aversion to protocol. She had a great interest in architecture, inspiring mine. We were both rejected by our closest relatives, for reasons similar, as we found out during a frank conversation.
“Louise was a consummate practitioner of our sensual games. Whereas my experience was limited to child’s play, she practised it all her life. With her current partner, of course, but also with a group of friends who did not abandon her after her divorce. Once in a while, she organised a feast for her confidants. The kind of party which other circles would label a perverse bacchanal.”

“Seriously?” Milena’s face tensed. “She played the game with others present? With you there?” The decision not to involve others in our game yet seems the right one, though her painting suggests otherwise.

“A boundary as well, madame?” Like a waiter, I write it down on an imaginary notepad. She sits up straight, knocks it out of my hands, and bites her lower lip thoughtfully.

“It seems terrifying,” she says. Not a no then, but a scene to introduce with caution.

“Some play with more partners because being desired by many excites them.”

She hesitates, but nods. Can she see herself enjoying or does she accept this reasoning for others? “For most, it’s being part of a group that shares unusual appetites without being condemned for it,” I say.

“Maybe. It tickles my fancy, but for now, I have enough on my plate with you alone. Later, perhaps. At least after this story. It wasn’t a problem for Louisa, I gather?”

“During these parties, Louisa rarely took part in the festivities. As a host, you’re responsible for the well-being of your guests. She enjoyed the game in a more intimate setting, with me, her husband, and a close friend of hers, for example. Anyway, playing the game necessitates rules of conduct, no matter how licentious the party is. Agreements and etiquette that also applied to Louisa’s own relationship. The outside world forced her to be strong and independent. With her lover, she didn’t have to. This requires clear agreements. The game and daily reality do not mesh in most circumstances. But also within the game itself, like the grace words. Together with a close friend of hers, she taught me a lot, both sides of the coin. For a master, nothing is as instructive as playing a slave.”

“You played their slave?” Again that slightly too enthusiastic smile.

Does she enjoy the notion of me submitting, or is she enticed by the role of mistress?
“Sometimes. The roles changed from time to time. In the end, the role of master suited me best. And it stayed that way.”.

“And now? Do you still see them?”

I sigh. Breaking with ‘Louisa’ and Johan was painful, although time softened the harsh reproaches back and forth. “He died ten years ago. Louisa is now in her seventies. I visit her once a year and our contact cooled. She knew my father and blamed me for the part I played in his death. Although she understands it, my callousness was a shock to her. Especially the way I abused the rules of the game to seduce my half-sister. The game which Louisa and her friend taught me.”

Milena nods. “She must have felt responsible for what you did. Especially if she was friends with your father.”

“That, but there were also issues on which we strongly disagreed. She was always into the Lord and his pastors. After the death of her beloved, religion took an increasingly important role in her life. I understand why, but I find it difficult to cope with. I owe much more to her than the game. Her knowledge of art and architecture, her network of fellow perverts that took me in as one of theirs. She was an example to me.”

With a wry smile, Milena runs a hand through my hair and kisses my cheek. “I think she still is. If her identity didn’t have to remain a secret, I would like to meet her. She seems like someone with lots to learn from.”

“When I speak to her, I’ll suggest it,” I lie with confidence, as I doubt ‘Louisa’ will appreciate my affair with Milena.

It’s early in the afternoon when we can finally free ourselves from the bed. Milena goes to the small villa to write some more letters and to pack her luggage. I have to take care of some remaining issues before our departure tomorrow morning.

My first appointment is with Yvette, who proudly shows me the sealed cabin trunk in which she packed the clothes for Milena, or rather Lara. She thinks she has outdone herself, but when I want to admire the result, she expressly forbids me to do so.

While Milena is packing in the guesthouse, I take the trunk to her cell and disregard Yvette’s prohibition. She has indeed worked her magic as far as I can judge, but I adjust the wardrobe and add some accessories. Together with the trunk and a simple evening meal, I leave a note for Milena. Hopefully, all the steps we took will converge tonight.

-=-

Dear Milena,

Yvette did the best she could for Lara. Make your choice from what is offered. At eight o’clock I will arrive in my bedroom to admire the result.
I am looking forward to it.

x D.

I may choose my own clothes, very funny. When I enter my cell to fetch my painting gear and toiletry items, I find the gigantic cabin trunk with the note attached. It’s more like a mobile wardrobe.

My jaw drops in amazement when I admire its contents: dresses made of luxurious fabrics adorned with exquisite details, and footwear in matching colours and patterns. Stockings and daring underwear made of beautiful lace and silk, a simple mask with fine embroidery next to a complicated one made of filigree with feathers and polished stones. Drawers with toiletries and perfumes, hair clips (with adjusting screws?) and bracelets. It’s like Christmas. A wardrobe that could last for years, filled with items Milena, the dutiful wife, would never wear. Lara has no such qualms.

Yvette managed a miracle when she put this ensemble together in two days. I am glad that she is fond of order and clarity. Everything is neatly labelled and easy to find. She also made it easy for me to choose. Her masterpiece, the fabulous dress she let me try on last, is hanging in front. Suitable for your assignment because I can wear it without a corset or undergarments. I’m sure you’ll like that.

I slip it on carefully, along with the heels that go with it. To my horror, the back is still open. It’s supposed to be; from my lower back to my neck, I’m naked. I couldn’t even wear underwear if I wanted to. There is no matching jacket, just a wide voile scarf. Cursing, I read the accompanying card: “For when it’s chilly outside after the opera. x Y.”
One look in the mirror convinces me this is the dress to wear. For this evening at least, I can choose more decent ensembles when attending the opera.

I arrive in your bedroom with time to spare, so I can change clothing and prepare for your arrival. Waiting for you, my thoughts wander. I imagine your delighted reaction when you see the dress while I carefully walk around getting used to the shoes. I am nervous as well.

How many steps will I dare go before I reach my boundaries? And then what? And I am horny, very horny. Especially now that I’m not allowed to play with myself to a satisfying end. I’ve already inserted the plug and I can hardly wait. You evoke an insatiability that amazes me. I like sex, sure, but an orgasm used to satisfy me for a while. Not anymore. When you inspire me, like with this assignment, I long for you with renewed intensity.

The pendulum on the mantelpiece strikes eight o’clock and rudely interrupts my reverie. My nerves flare in all their intensity, and I stand quickly, still uncomfortable in those ridiculously high heels. I notice how they force me into a pose. A pose that suits me: seductive, willing, and strong. Proud of who I am and who I want to be for you.

The door opens. Standing in the doorway you look at me from head to toe. It reminds me of our first time, in the dining room. Yet it is different. Back then I was mainly afraid of what would happen, now I’m curious what you think of my choice of clothes. It is important to me. Are you happy with it? Are you proud of me?

Your smile is sweet and reassuring. You close the door, stride over and kiss me. Your hand disappears under the dress along a hidden slit in the side and your fingers find the plug between my buttocks. Without hesitation, I let you draw me into the game. I am grateful when you touch me, explore my cunt with your fingers, and order me to bend over, my hands resting on my shins.

While I stand unsteadily on my heels, you undress. A scene that would normally have my attention, but now I am too preoccupied with keeping my balance, afraid of a graceless tumble forward. The effort it requires strains my calves. I manage much better with my eyes closed.

Then your hands grab my hair and hold me steady. Terror and relief fuse in excitement as you use my mouth to get hard. Only to fuck me from the other side, causing me to stagger forward. I enjoy your cock filling me, your hands gripping my sides, and the slow rhythm of your hips thrusting against my buttocks.

The woeful fear of falling forward remains. You demand my absolute trust because I am not allowed to put out my arms in protection. You spank my rear when I do this out of reflex, or just because you feel like colouring my bottom red. I cannot lose myself in mindless lust, due to the counterbalance of slaps and fear for falling over. With something as simple as bending over and trying to keep my balance, you already bring me into a state of rapture.

Eventually, you notice that this position is wearing me down. The dress served its purpose, fuelling your desire for me, and my need to be desirable. It comes off, and I can assume my favourite position on the thick carpet between the bed and the fireplace. Again you take me from behind. I’m so horny you have me begging for an orgasm in no time.

You don’t allow it and hit my glowing buttocks hard with the flat of your hand to slow down my urge. But pain settles differently, together with a new stimulus; you roll something pointed over my skin. Delicious. With the tracing wheel (for that’s what it turned out to be) you write letters I have to guess on my back, while you drive your shaft with slow strokes deep into my cunt. Because I have to keep my wits about me, it is impossible to float away completely. The lack of that sedating haze intensifies all the sensations and distracts me.

The dam bursts. A flood of lust overwhelms me, and I come. I can’t revel in it, not without your permission. Satisfaction mixes with guilt. When you ask, I admit I failed to control myself and I long for punishment. The rush ebbs away; only my submission remains. Filled with remorse, I surrender to your purgative judgement. You open the suitcase and ask me to hand over the only object left. With knees buckling, I kneel before you in the Servant position. Upright, with my eyes humbly fixed on the floor, I offer you the riding crop on my open palms. Pain.

You stand behind me, and I have to move from Serve to Table. The training helps. I don’t think about it, and bend over smoothly until I lean on knees and elbows. With the supple leather at the end of the whip, you gently stroke my clit. It calms me down and I take a deep breath. Don’t move, you say, and the leather leaves my skin. Then the whip whistles. You strike my buttocks hard once and I groan as the searing pain burns. A fire that quickly extinguishes into a warm glow. You ask me how many of these blows I earned for coming without permission.

Now I get scared. I want to show you how strong I am, but what if I can’t bear it? Ten, I say with a confidence I don’t feel. You show mercy. Six will do if I beg for my punishment. Of course I do, but my fear holds me back. I fail to convince you and the number remains ten. I have to count them before each stroke lands.

Tears well up in my eyes as you carry out my punishment, blow after blow. Burning pain, glowing hot, taking a deep breath and gathering courage before saying the next number. My voice breaks. Anxiety and desire mix, because I also enjoy the beating, your merciless punishment, the two extra blows you deliver when I abandon my posture out of fear. After every blow I endure, I am stronger, braver, better. With every stroke, I prove my worth to you. At the same time, I am afraid that it will become too much for me, that I won’t be able to take it anymore and pain breaks my submission. Yet I never come close to breaking. I only grow more submissive because of the pain. Yes, that’s it: pain humbles me, bondage leads to surrender.

Then it’s over and I may assume the next pose, Rug. Exhausted, sweaty and panting, I stretch myself out on the thick carpet, legs wide, wrists crossed on my back. I shiver all over my body, the tension in my muscles slowly ebbing away. The blazing fire on my buttocks turns to a warm glow. When I glance over my shoulder, I find your eyes and I see your awe; I’ve held out until the end and it’s enough.

You kiss my neck tenderly and apply the scented oil I know well by now. It tingles on the marks you drew with the whip. Your hands massage the worst of the tension from my muscles. Finally, you remove my chain-linked hair clips and drape my hair over my back. With the loosening of my tight hairdo, I arrive at a state of mindless peace. Thoughtless, but not without lust. Your caressing hands and the warm fire in my buttocks spreading to my cunt fuels my desire for more.

The game continues; I have to Stand and Present, hands behind my neck, legs spread. You kiss my lips, my neck, my nipples. I shudder when you suck on them, moan when you gently bite. A heady melange of pain, pleasure, fear, and desire, especially when your hand simultaneously plays with my cunt far too gently.

When I move my hips to feel more of your fingers, you step back. With eyes full of lust and a smile that doesn’t bode well, you take the two hair clips, adjust the screws and clamp them on my swollen nipples one by one. Your gaze is the only reason I don’t flinch; to bask in your desire for me is divine. As the metal squeezes my tender skin, I wince at the stinging pain that slowly subsides and intensifies the warm glow between my legs.

Floor is the next position: lying with my arms trapped under my back, my legs spread wide as far apart as possible, my gaze focused on the ceiling painted red by the setting sun. Carefully, you connect the two clamps on my nipples with a small chain. Then you take the whip and with the end of it you caress my body; along my legs, my sides, my shoulders, my head, as if you were tracing me on the carpet with a long leather brush. My whole body stiffens, but a storm rages in my head and I break out in a sweat. A seething mixture of fearing what you might do to me while I’m defenceless, and excitement of being available, only existing to please you.

The caress of the whip ends at the lips of my soaking cunt. You drive me even hornier when you gently tap my labia with the leather end of the crop, and I sink deeper and deeper into ecstasy. You threaten to hit harder, I think. I only catch half of it. Drops spill from my cunt and part of me even hopes you do it, because I yearn for more stimuli. I would come if you continued, but you don’t.

At last, your cock slides in effortlessly as you tower above me. I’m powerless, whether or not I am bound. Powerless to hold back my orgasm for long as well. You drive me crazy when you take me, thrust deep inside me with your hands like hooks around my shoulders and your eyes filled with admiration.

Tears fill mine, my vision blurs and I close my eyes. I will not keep this up. I’m going to disappoint you, I’m going to come again without permission. The fear helps, but not for long. You show mercy by torturing me, pulling the chain between the two clamps with your teeth. Stings flare through my nipples and dampen the urge to climax.

You slip out and stand, towering over me and leaving me empty. Slipping the stick of the whip under the chain, you slowly lift it and command me to rise. I follow, slow and careful to stir the chained clamps as little as possible. You lead me on the bed, crawling until I reach the centre on hands and knees. There you place the whip flat on the mattress with my palms on either end, the chain trapped under the stick, dangling from the clamps on my nipples.

I’m so deep in my submission that pain is only welcome, as it helps me to follow your rules and suppress my orgasm. It fails when you start fucking me from behind. I push myself up, tugging the chain taut and the biting clamps pull on my nipples. Anything to stop my orgasm. No matter how high I push myself, no matter how far I stretch my nipples, your fat, pounding cock overwhelms everything. My need to come remains, the torment even strengthens it. Every sensation does.

That is the moment you grant me permission. With the clamps pulling on my nipples, I come groaning. I come again when the clamps tear loose. There is no way to stop it. I scream in pain, in pleasure. Pain is pleasure. My continuously contracting cunt around your cock is too much for you as well. You pull out and with shuddering shocks you come, roaring and splashing your seed over my back, over my buttocks and against my cunt, which only makes me come again, even without being filled. I have satisfied you, broken your restraint.

I am in a state of utter bliss as aftershocks rock my body. I am totally and thoroughly fucked, still shivering from, well, from what? The intense series of orgasms, the submissive rush, the pain, the pleasure? Everything in me focuses on obeying and pleasing you. When you want me to lie down, I need you to order me. I would stay in my previous pose all night had you required me to. Now I understand how you can play this game regardless of sex. I don’t care what you do to me, the intoxication of torment mixed with lust, the power you have over me, already incites such glorious delight that sex is only a bonus.

All I want now is you pulling me back slowly. I need you to cuddle and embrace me, and you do. Held tight in your arms, we both pant. Your body pressed against mine shelters me, and I savour your embrace. We lock eyes, speechless, grateful and exhausted. You remove the plug but don’t wipe me down and I enjoy the smell of your sticky seed mixed with our sweat. I still crave you, despite my exhausted body. My head reels and as I sleep, I dream of you. Strange, chaotic dreams.

When you kiss me awake, you already dressed because you have to arrange the last preparations for our journey. You’ve let me sleep in as long as possible and serve me a tray with coffee and sandwiches at the foot of the bed. My travelling clothes hang neatly on a peg along with the cleaned plug, and a hot bath is waiting for me.

No matter how long you allowed me to sleep, it’s as if a train ran me over; no, fucked me. My goodness, I’m still tired. I can’t stop yawning, even breakfast and coffee are to no avail. Apparently, I’m not insatiable after all. Besides the fatigue, I can do without my submissive frenzy for a while, no matter how delicious it is.