The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1. Emanuel J.

plastic women's legs could be seen in the shop window, each wrapped in a stocking, one even in a fishnet stocking. Without thinking, he opened the door. It was a very small shop, but stuffed with stocking packs that crowded into glass shelves on the walls and in chests in the middle of the room. Nobody was there. Then, an old lady with set curls came out of the next room, old-fashioned in a green suit with a knee-length skirt and a blazer tightly buttoned up the front. With burning cheeks he voiced his desire, stumbling over his words, “I need stockings... for an acquaintance. Fishnet stockings.. for suspenders. Black, size four at least.”

      The lady looked him up and down, “It’ll be a size five at least.” Hm. She had obviously disregarded his mumblings about an acquaintance. With great purpose, she went to one of the chests and pulled out a pack of black fishnet stockings like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, “This should be the right thing for you. They are densely woven at the tip so that they do not pull between the toes, which can be rather uncomfortable.” Oh. Amazing what specialist knowledge all this required. He took a second pack with him, just to be on the safe side, you never know.

      The lady smiled approvingly, “They are more robust than normal stockings. There's a lot you can do with them. Maybe that's why your friend recommended them to you.” For the first time in his life, he noticed the similarity between recommended and commanded. So weird.

      He pretended not to have heard her and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket, while the lady placed two circular and black foam inserts the size of halved grapefruits on the counter, “If you need any padding? They feel good, are so light that they do not slip, give a nice shape, are machine washable and quite cheap. These are for a B cup.” Could she see through plastic or read his mind?

      He looked right past her, “Okay.”

      Together with the stockings they disappeared in his black bag and he put thirty euros on the table. He sacrificed the one cent he was supposed to get back to a quick escape. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried into the street, and was immediately drenched by the torrential rain. When he finally got home, he looked like he’d fallen in the river. But the main thing was that nothing had happened to this precious cargo, protected by the waterproof plastic bag. He took a shower and creamed his whole body from top to bottom to soften the smooth skin. Then he had to wait, actually write, yes, but nothing occurred to him, so wait until evening finally came. In the meantime, he looked up the association between recommend and command. In some unfathomable way the words had developed over the course of millennia from an Indo-European origin with the meaning “to cover, to envelop”, he read. And now, in these supposedly modern times, they were used like a code by a stocking saleswoman who told him quite obviously that she at least suspected why he had come to her shop.

      *

      The corselet fitted snug against his skin. It fitted well, and as Franziska predicted, it was very practical, because it didn't need hips as support, which it got from the thin straps over the armpits. The lady in the stocking store was also right: The foam inlays felt soft and warm and gave an attractive shape, almost as if real breasts filled the cups. The fishnet stockings flattered his legs very nicely and reached far up over the middle of the thighs, the straps were hardly stretched by them. Only the thong had some trouble containing the swelling sex under its mesh facade. Fascinated, he looked at himself in the long mirror hanging in the hallway, fortunately left there by the previous tenant. What he saw filled him with a tingling sensation and deep gratitude for his mistress, under whose direction he could experience these wonderful adventures. not a hint of the afternoon’s disgruntlement remained, what she had asked had been difficult, but not impossible. His complete change of mood was true to the stereotype of the volatile slave.

      Since he of course could not leave the apartment in this outfit, he pulled his normal men's clothes over it, which he would then have to (be allowed to) take off again over there, which admittedly was rather cumbersome, but unavoidable. At nine o'clock he hurried over to the neighbouring apartment with his padding in his hand, briefly pressed the bell button and opened the door with a pounding heart. Today, he was not expected in the living room, but in the kitchen, he saw the light coming from there. There were probably dishes to wash.

      Franziska was alone and greeted him in a very strange manner, staring at him in amazement as though he were an exhibitionist who had just accosted her with unexpected nudity beneath his coat, “What's that?” How? What did she mean? He was so confused by the consternation that he could say nothing and act even less, which meant that the deferential greeting that she presumably expected from him did not occur. Apparently, she had forgotten it in her surprise. “Didn't I tell you I wanted to see you in suspenders? And what are you wearing? A pair of jeans and a T-shirt! And sneakers. And socks. How is this possible.”

      “But Franziska, my mistress. I'm wearing what you... what you told me to wear.”

      “Then why can't I see it?”

      “It's underneath.”

      “Underneath?” Said in a tone that suggested she did not understand the word. “And what's that in your hand?”

      He hesitated for a moment, “Padding ... for the cups.”

      “For the cups? You're really killing me! What would you say if I carried my bosom around in my hands? Would you like that?” No, he wouldn't like that and didn't want to imagine it either, what a horrible thought. Still she had not recovered from her horror, “What were you thinking?”

      “Yes, but I can't...” His words died a pitiful death.

      “What can't you do?”

      “Well... walk around the stairwell in women's clothes.”

      “Oh, now do you decide what you can and can't do?” She sighed hard, “Looks like you still need to be taught the most basic things.” She approached him with her head slightly tilted and pointed to the small niche next to the shelf, “Stand over there in the corner. There you can think about what you've just done.”

      What? He was supposed to stand in the corner? She couldn’t be serious, could she? Her flat hand sounded and landed on his cheek and immediately a second time. Her voice suddenly sounded cool, “Do I have to help? You are sure of your punishment, but it will be more if you do not do what I tell you immediately!” She slapped him again and he stood there, hesitating, where she wanted him to be, his back turned to her, “You don't move, you don't make a sound.” The silence was interrupted only by the sound of a chair that was adjusted as she sat down, and by the rustling of paper, which suggested that she was leafing through a magazine. He saw nothing but the grainy white wallpaper in front of him. He closed his eyes.

      Quiet footsteps approached and the next moment Isabel's astonished voice sounded, “Oh. What's that?”

      Franziska's answer sounded indifferent, “He's in the corner as a punishment.”

      “Like back in school?”

      “Yes, that's right. Somehow you have to teach him obedience.”

      “Because he's not wearing suspenders?”

      “He's got some on, he says anyway. But underneath.” She pronounced the word underneath as though it were a term of unimaginable perversion and sighed, frustrated, “It was to be expected that his training would still require a lot of work.”

      “But it's also interesting, the educational work. I'll come back later.” Isabel's footsteps moved away and gently the door to her room closed.

      Franziska let him stand there for hours, it seemed to him, and he was still holding the padding in his hand. He stood here like a little boy, deeply humiliated. He felt aggrieved. What did she expect from him? Should he take a walk-through town in suspenders? She had said that he was already sure of his punishment. He was afraid of the hard blows and yet the old-fashioned word chastisement stirred shivers of arousal in him. Could he calm her down somehow so she would be a little milder with him if he was very sweet and very obedient as soon as he was allowed to talk again?

      As soon as he thought that, Franziska broke the leaden silence, “So you