The Mistresses Next Door - Episode 1. Emanuel J.

seconds?”

      “I don't know, mistress.”

      “Of course not. How could you? I don't care if it's eight seconds or ten. The stairs out there creak the second anyone so much as thinks of stepping on them, you could hear a mouse on them... And you're saying in all seriousness that someone might see you in those few seconds? That would only be possible if you were completely deaf. And you're not, are you?”

      “No, my mistress,” he still spoke against the wall because he dared not turn without her permission.

      “Fine. And because you are not deaf, you now go back over to your place and make a second attempt. Maybe this time you'll know what to do.”

      The relief at finally being released from the shameful corner (not that the corner itself was shameful, it was rendered shameful by his standing there) was clouded by the prospect of the test of nerve Franziska’s request presented. In the hallway, she opened the upper drawer of the dresser that stood there, digging out something black.

      Thin ballet shoes, he saw as she pressed them into his hand, “Put them on. They ought to fit. And make sure it doesn't take too long.”

      “Yes, my lady, I will hurry.”

      He opened the apartment door, to find himself faced with Jasmin, the pleasant, chubby, brown-haired law student who lived upstairs in the flat next to Roland and had just come down the stairs. She smiled at him affably and glanced at the things in his hands, but she said nothing about it, and they exchanged a few harmless words about the weather before she went on her way. Franziska’s assertion that one could not be surprised here was probably pure wishful thinking, but perhaps it could be avoided if he paid better attention.

      Arriving at his apartment, he took off his outer clothing completely, pulled up his stockings a little, even though they had slipped down only a tiny bit, if at all, adjusted the mesh over his cock and balls and positioned the foam inlays in the right place. The ballet shoes, which were made of thin linen, had leather patches on the sole and were held fast on the foot by an elastic band, fitted as if they had been cast on, and, however flimsy, they took away from him the feeling of running somehow unfinished around in his stocking feet. And they looked very feminine. Like everything else about him. Breathless, he looked at himself in the mirror. So now he was really about to go and model his outfit for his neighbours. Wouldn't you think him misguided, or worse? If he dared allow himself to contemplate the possibility that there were indeed women who found something charming about a man in women's clothing, something inside him countered this thought, saying, “No one wants to see that!” He should have thought it over sooner. Now it was too late. There was no going back. There was no time for Hollywood-like drama. Where to put the key to the apartment? He didn't have a pocket to put it in anymore. Keeping it in his hand and then quickly putting it down somewhere over there seemed strange to him and also presented the danger that Franziska might take issue with this. It was probably better to leave it here and put the latch on the door so that he could simply push it open on his return. There was little danger of theft, only the inhabitants entered the building, and besides, no life was without risk. He opened the door a tiny crack and carefully peered out. There was nothing to hear and nothing to see. For a moment, he waited. Still no creaking, no footsteps on the stairs . The coast was clear. He snuck out into the stairwell, feeling as conspicuous as if he were in the centre of town with a busload of tourists preparing to point cameras at him. Nothing happened. Hastily he rang the bell, feeling as though it rang through the entire building, specifically to announce his appearance to each of the residents. He entered the apartment like a rabbit disappearing into its warren in the face of a pack of dogs.

      Franziska came out of the kitchen, Isabel came out of her room. They looked at him, domineering. He knew exactly what he had to do, didn't need instructions, overcame the deep shame and sank wordlessly to his knees before Franziska, devotedly licked her boots and then turned to Isabel to greet her like a godlike ruler with her beloved red lacquered toenails. There could be nothing more exciting, on his knees before these women.

      Franziska stroked his hair benevolently with the remark that he was making good progress in his training.

      Isabel, on the other hand, looked at him sceptically, “Looks funny...” She looked at Franziska as if she were the expert on transvestism, “Is it very humiliating for a man to be dressed like a woman, or does he find it arousing?”

      For a moment Franziska paused to stroke his hair, “I don't know. I'd like to bet on the latter. But why don't you ask him yourself?”

      Isabel's brown eyes peered at him as though he were a laboratory mouse, “And? What's it like? Humiliating or horny?”

      The question was easy to answer, “Both, Lady Isabel. There's no difference. They're two sides of the same coin.”

      “Humiliation makes you horny?”

      “Yes, Lady Isabel.”

      “And lust makes you humble?”

      This was also possible if it was assumed that a pleasure slave functioned best in a state of excitement, “Yes, Lady Isabel. I guess that's...”

      She nodded understanding, “It's a strange game... if it's a game at all. The cloak of civilization is pulled away and beneath it the unadulterated, the real being comes to light, the instinct ... No wonder most people want little to do with it.”

      Franziska put two fingers to his lips and looked at himself smiling as he kissed them submissively and took them greedily into his mouth. “The theory seems to be right. He’s definitely in possession of a sex drive,” the fingers spread out and pushed themselves deeper, stoked lust in him, drove excited sighs from his lips, “The thing missing was humility. Have you realized what a faux pas you have made?” Yes, he did. He could only shake his head in disbelief at himself when he thought of it. He nodded without pausing to suck her fingers, and she shook her head, “Let's hope you learn something from this. Anyway, your insight is a little late.”

      The fingers left his mouth and he was allowed to rise from his knees, which ached. Franziska ordered him to get the crop, which was lying on the chest of drawers. He held it as he had carried it through half the city, and heard the next instruction, “Hold it right! “

      Right? He knew exactly what she meant, but hesitated for a moment, it was tricky to get it onto the upturned palms of his hands, to hold it with the requisite submission. Like an offering, he carried it over to Franziska. Now he understood what was expected of him, and bent his knees in a curtsey. Smiling, she took the stick from his hands and even before he understood what was happening to him, Isabel had handcuffed him. His hands were bound in front of him by cold hard steel, the locks clicking shut to restrain him tightly. The two women led him into the kitchen and forced his upper body down until his forehead lay on the table top. One hand remained on his neck to hold him down, while the other comfortingly stroked his hair and he heard Isabel's murmur in his ear, “I'm afraid it's going to hurt quite a bit. Franziska was really annoyed with you.” Her sympathy was that of a sadist, because of course her words increased his fear. Nevertheless, he was glad of the lovingly stroking hand.

      Without warning, the dreaded whirring sounded, followed by an ugly clap. It was as if a wild animal had bitten him. Immediately the next blows pelted down upon him. Franziska gave him a vivacious beating, causing his consciousness to shift, at points he lost hearing and sight; apparently she was really angry at him. When she passed the stick on to Isabel, it was no better, even the blows of the less natural mistress were agonizing. The pain was intense, it became scarcely bearable as the bare buttocks were mercilessly whacked, the thong between them adding insult to injury, cementing his degradation. Words formed from his whimpering as if by themselves as he sobbed in pain and shame, “Please, Lady Isabel, please don't hit anymore. I'll be really polite, so polite, so obedient…”

      And indeed, the anticipated blow did not materialise, but Franziska’s voice sounded immediately. “If you let yourself soften now, he'll start whining after the first stroke in the future.” He didn't see it, but, to his horror, he heard Franziska take the crop. Cruel mistress that she was, she struck him relentlessly, until he thought he may die of pain. He felt tears roll down his