The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1. Emanuel J.

Did women do that? Some, for sure, he knew from Internet acquaintances, and the tantalizing mistress ideas, with which Franziska surprised him, suggested as much. The dishes needed doing, but he didn’t feel like it. Perhaps he should take them to Franziska's kitchen, where even dishwashing turned into an enchanted adventure...

      *

      With a pounding heart, he stood in front of her door at nine o'clock. Would she let him feel the sting of the whip? Would it hurt badly? Breathless, compelling fear of this encounter, shame at what he might be forced to do mingled with the frisson of expectation in his mind. He rang briefly, waited a second, and then gently pressed against the cheap door that opened readily for him. Stealthy as a thief in the night he snuck into the hallway, which was illuminated by a small light next to the coat cupboard. The kitchen door to his right was half open, but the kitchen was dark behind it, while a strip of dim light emerged from the living room straight ahead. And from there Franziska's voice sounded: “We are here!”

      We? She was not alone? Cautiously he entered the room. He had only been there once before, prior to ending up stuck in the kitchen on his subsequent visits. She had company - comfortably stretched out, Isabel lounged in an armchair, dressed in a blue skirt and a black T-shirt. Today, however, she was not wearing the usual sandals, but black sandals with low heels, and, unusually, she wore no socks, so you could see her toenails painted in the same dark red as her fingernails. Franziska sat in the second armchair, crop in hand. She wore jeans as usual, plus a plain long-sleeved red top with a scoop neckline - and the new boots! Waiting, she looked at him. He knew exactly what she wanted and it was very exciting... But in front of Isabel? Her presence made him freeze into a pillar of salt. Wouldn't she be shocked and lose the last bit of respect for him? She struck him as very decent, and almost certainly entirely inexperienced in BDSM.

      Franziska cocked her head, “Have you forgotten how an obedient slave greets his mistress?”

      “No. I just thought...”

      “And have you forgotten how to address me? All gone from your head?” She let the crop spring in her left hand, “Looks like I shall have to teach you all this first. Take your pants off!”

      “Please, Franziska, I could give you... you...” Oh, what did he care about Isabel's gaze? She knew that he was Franziska’s slave, and it was not only absurd, but made everything even more shameful when he tried to hide his role from her. “Please forgive me, my lady. I didn't have the courage for a moment... May I greet you as you deserve?

      She smiled surprised, “Oh, that sounds better now. Just a little late. Come on, pull them down!”

      It was as if every piece of furniture in the room were staring at him: the small television, the cheap stereo, the books on the shelf, the round glass table and the black leather suite with the two armchairs and the small sofa. All this seemed improvised and thrown together, but this was normal for such an apartment, which was not meant to be occupied long-term. Involuntarily his gaze wandered through the window to the façade of the neighbouring house, which one could see very clearly through the beige curtains. They were not opaque and one could look out almost unhindered through their fine gauze. Most probably it was as easy to see in, a fact that he preferred not to think about right now.

      Commanded by Franziska’s impatient tone, he hesitantly unbuckled his belt, undid the button on the waistband, the zipper. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the jeans down to the middle of his thighs. But this was not enough. “Keep going!” He pushed the pants down to his ankles, then his black underwear. Filled with hot shame, he would have liked the ground to swallow him as the two women gazed pitilessly at his tiny little cock, dangling pathetically. With small steps, constrained by the fetters of his pants, he maneuvered himself between the armchairs and to the round table, on which stood a bottle of red wine and two bulbous glasses, both filled two finger's breadths high. As if condemned to death, he obeyed Franziska's next command, leaning forward and resting with both hands on the thick glass of the table top, while his eyes closed all by themselves like a sleeping doll.

      He heard both women rise, and flinched when one hand touched his ass. It did not hurt him, but stroked him tenderly, accompanied by Franziska’s compassionate words, “My poor slave. You shall have to suffer a little. But it's your own fault. Are you embarrassed in front of Isabel?”

      “Yes, my lady. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

      “You don't have to be ashamed in front of her, at least not more than me. And you will give her exactly the respect I expect from you. You will obey her every command and be her obedient slave. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, my mistress.”

      “Fine. Let's hope they're not empty promises,” the hand let go of him and he held his breath. Then the crop stung his ass and drew a cry of pain from his lips. But it wasn't as bad as he had feared. But that was only the beginning, the rehearsal, the acclimatization. Much to his horror, he noted during the next blows that this crop could really hurt (and thus “to discipline a slave” was entirely correct, just as claimed by the strange saleswoman). But he was not a child who had to endure a beating helplessly, it wouldn't have been a problem just to stand up and take her stick out of her hand, because he was stronger than she was. Then what? Sitting alone in the apartment again, bitterly repenting? Much too intriguing were the feelings that Franziska's severity gave him. He would have been loath to relinquish them now... He was, in fact, only physically stronger than her, in his soul he was defenceless against her. Tears ran down his cheeks under the painful blows she gave him with a cool hand, and when she finally stopped, the relief was not as good as expected.

      The words he heard from her made his hair stand on end, “Are you going on?” He did not see it, but guessed she had passed the crop on to Isabel, accompanied by instructive words, “But don’t be timid. If you only hurt him a little, he will start to crave punishment and provoke it. Then he will never be obedient.”

      Again, the stick clapped on his ass and immediately he felt that Isabel was sticking to the instructions she had accepted without comment. Again, tears ran down his cheeks, his tormented sobbing filled the room and he desperately wondered how the ordeal could be shortened. If resistance was not an option, then perhaps the plea for mercy? “Please...” The word was obscured by his whimpering, it was too quiet, he would have to try again. Or would he?

      The stick paused and from afar Franziska's voice sounded in his ears, “I told you you'd have to suffer. And that will always be the case in the future if you do not obey our orders immediately. You understand? “

      “Yes, my mistress.”

      “What did you hear?”

      “That I must obey your every command...” Further words gushed out of his heart, he could not hold back. Even if his love was perhaps “only” for her role and less for her person, she was no less important for it, especially since he no longer recognized any difference between the role and the person anyway.

      A smile resonated in her words, “Nice to hear. I'll do anything for that... And now you must finally make up for the greeting.”

      With his ass burning, he turned around and saw the two women standing next to each other a few steps away from him, Isabel still with the crop in her hand. Without a moment's hesitation, he sank to his knees in front of them and approached Franziska’s left boot. In many photos he had already seen something like this, half fascinated and half repulsed. He had sometimes fantasised about it, only to be ashamed again, because in the eyes of the normal world there was nothing more shameful. And never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined he would actually have to do it. Carefully he let his tongue glide over the smooth leather, over the instep and up the inside to the knee. It was more exciting than he could ever have imagined, because the boots were not inanimate objects, but an extension of the body of his adored mistress. Adding to the excitement, Isabel’s sandals awaited his attention. He now turned to kiss the delicate toes. He tried to suck them but could not, the sandals were too tight. So, he licked them devoutly, while he heard Isabel's voice saying, “It's funny to get your feet kissed as if you were a queen. But I think I could get used to it... Especially since the roles are reversed, it’s not always