A sudden staff crisis messed up our plans. Jutta had to work all day, and she was definitely not happy about it. I steered myself away from her problems and mood and spent nearly a whole day in a small model railway shop in Feuerburg. In the Netherlands, all those small shops have vanished like dust in the wind, whereas in Germany, there are still these amazing stores that primarily sell rare vintage items that are incredibly difficult to find. Our conversation was a mix of Dutch, English, German, and non-verbal communication. We promised to keep in touch.
In the evening, there was no sign of Jutta. I ate a lovely dinner alone at a table in the dining room and watched all those elderly folks having a good time. After dinner, I retreated to my room, soaked for a long time in the bath. I had texted Sylvia ‘will you come to Feuerburg tomorrow?’ but there was no text message back. If I do not sound upset over Sylvia not responding, it’s because that’s Sylvia. When we got married, we had many arguments about it, and now I shrug and say “It’s Sylvia.” If she’s occupied, that’s where her attention will be.
On Thursday morning, the soft knocking on my door awakened me. My first thought was ‘Did Sylvia come as a surprise?’ but I knew better. I schooled my face, because disappointment is easy to read on a guy’s face. Jutta was standing there, probably hoping not to be seen entering a guest room in her nightgown. I opened the door to let her in.
She dropped immediately on her knees and bowed with her face on the ground. Manipulation Slave Style. First you ignore Master for a day, and to make it up you show he is suddenly the centre of your universe.
“Master, I just want to…”
“Stop”, I said and continued in a calm voice, “There is no need to apologise. You have a business to run, and that has priority above all. Instead, I have spent a very pleasant day in Feuerburg and scored a fair amount of rare items.” I nodded at the small table, now full of my treasures. My showpiece was a Faller construction kit from their eighties version of the Baden Baden station, a rare piece of beauty. It was lost on Jutta, I could see. That was nothing new. Sylvia would inquire about the cost and also lose interest. Their bad.
She looked a bit disappointed I had spent a seemingly very nice day without her.
“What are your plans for today, Master Koen?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“A walk, master?”
“You know? First one foot forward, signal to the one behind to sway forward as well, and so on.”
“What is wrong, master? It’s not like you to be sarcastic.”
“I’m sorry. You are right. The weather is beautiful today, and since I live in a flat area, I’m really looking forward to going on a mountain hike.”
“You realise you condition is better than mine, right?”
“I’m some 15 years older than you.”
We walked for a while in silence.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Lifebuoys.”
From the bag, I took two leather cuffs and secured one on Jutta’s left wrist while the other went on mine. I fastened a meter long metal chain to both ends. I raised my hand high.
“Now I can’t get lost. You’re my lifebuoy.”
She smiled sweetly. It was a crappy joke. I know.
We walked a while in silence. Out of nowhere, she started talking.
“It’s a strange way of life, BDSM. For most people, it’s not a way of life at all. It’s just something different in their boring sex lives and they are content to do something ‘naughty’ mostly so they can giggle with their friends about it. Then there is a small group that loves to play games in the bedroom. A bit of ‘yes, master’ and all in good fun. A little spanking to spice things up again, a bit of candle wax and cuffs and the unavoidable nipple clamps. Outside of the bedroom, they have a relationship of equals and that suits them fine.”
“A small group of weirdos are playing outside the bedroom as well.” She said. “They need more stuff because they want to play anywhere they like to. Lots of rough sex, but sex is the key ingredient that keeps their relation together.”
She slowed down as the path went uphill. She had been right. My condition was better than hers. Panting heavily, she continued.
“At the top of the pyramid is the group all the other groups fantasise about: the 24/7, total power exchange relationship. Out of all those who attempt it, only a small percentage, maybe around 1%, keep that 24/7 relation alive into the second year. And there are a multitude of reasons for that, for every relationship is unique, even if they all fit within the BDSM-umbrella. It starts with a clear set of rules. If you don’t have a standard, how can you ask your slave to adhere to it? If you don’t punish your slave right after he or she makes a mistake, why would the slave bother even to try? She can break the rules and her master doesn’t care enough to punish her, or worse, he makes up an excuse for her behaviour. Oh, she’s had a bad day at work. Oh, she is upset about a quarrel with her mother. Her master has already punished her today… Masters can come up with better excuses for slaves than slaves can for themselves. Masters have to be compassionate, but a slave only respects a master who is consequent and strict. It all begins very ambitious in that 24/7 relationship, but it’s so difficult to maintain.”
“And you point would be…?” I asked.
“Forgive me, Master, for this rant. I need to explain a bit more, and then – and only then – I will make my point you will not like, Master Koen. BDSM is a big skyscraper and people in the lifestyle love to have their own apartment in it. Dominants can be a master or a top or a dom, a daddy dom, a sadist, a rigger, a pet handler, a trainer, or an owner. And on the other side of the flogger we have slaves, bottoms, submissives, littles, brats, service submissives, pain sluts and Kajira slaves from the GOR-series by John Norman. This is just the main division. If you go further, there are hundreds of variations that feel completely different from the rest. A sadist will look down on a Daddy Dom. A rigger has nothing with a trainer of slaves. You would think people in this lifestyle as a small minority under attack of the public opinion would be tolerant of each other, but nothing is further from the truth.”
I looked at her, but she wasn’t looking back, her focus on the road ahead. “To me, a Daddy Dom has nothing to do with an incestuous longing but is a type of dominant who takes on a nurturing, protective, yes, sometimes paternal role with their submissive. It focuses on care, guidance and emotional support and the power exchange. My late husband was providing emotional support. He was setting rules and boundaries for me. And made me feel safe. He always encouraged me in all aspects of life. If I thought I couldn’t do it, he would help me. He made me grow as a woman. But at the same time, he was watching the rules and boundaries like a hawk. And any transgression would surely lead to punishment. Consensual power exchange was the core of our relationship. He took responsibility for caring and guiding me. If I made a mistake because he failed to teach me a certain rule, he blamed himself for it, not me.”
“Your Sylvia is not a little one. You often refer to her as your little one, but she is made of other material. Your Sylvia is a hardcore masochist. Masochists are the highest level category in submission. Some people think they are only pain sluts, but they are more than that. They love the humiliation aspect of it as well. That was the reason she loved being the canvas for rude comments all over her body. I’m willing to bet she is into spitting and watersports as well,” Jutta said.
“That is total nonsense”, I said, feeling the anger already boiling.
“There are two reasons you deny my theory. One: a masochist scares the hell out of a Daddy Dom. The second is that you think I’m jealous of Sylvia and want to steal you away from her.”
“Shut up”, I snarled.
As if I had said nothing, she continued. “Masochists are more common than most people think. What about the guys that bike 20 days through France on a searing summer day, stop to barf and continue until they need medical care after the finish line? How about boxers? Ballerina’s? Circus people? Masochism can be about sex, but it doesn’t have to be. Even the guys that run themselves over the line of exhaustion, masochism is everywhere. But masochism is always consensual. Society labels a woman as a masochist when she pushes her limits by lifting immense weights until her muscles are in excruciating pain, whereas someone who is compelled to carry heavy loads against their own volition is considered a prisoner. I have talked about this many times with my daughter, whom I consider being a masochist. I have asked her the ‘why-question’ many times. Why do you like pain, what are you getting out of it? She couldn’t give me an answer. Finally she said: Why are you a submissive? Of all people, you should be able to understand what I am feeling. And she was right of course. Because I have spent so much time with my daughter, I recognise a masochist when I see them. And I have met several of them along the way. And a Daddy Dom can never satisfy a masochist with a few ropes, a dripping candle or a nipple clamp on her titties. If you don’t see that, your vanilla relationship with Sylvia blinded you.”
“You are fucking crazy. Do you know that?” I said, fuming.
Jutta continued, unperturbed. “You think I’m crazy because I’m insanely jealous of the relationship between you and your wife, and I’m trying to destroy it?” Despite already expressing my love for you, I am certain that I have no chance. I know you will stand by your wife unconditionally, even if she makes mincemeat of you. I would gladly be your second wife with no status, or your wife’s slave at the bottom of the family power pyramid. But as a masochist, she will never agree to be my mistress. She would want to be my slave and you would never agree to that. So I don’t stand a chance. I’m telling you all this because when the shit hits the fan, and it will someday, I’ll always be there for you. With no hope of payback in any form, only because I love you. I care about you, and I’m way too old to be playing games. Just know that I’m here for you when you need me. And now you can hit me. She held her cheek towards me defiantly.
God forgive me. Never hit a woman in anger is one of the golden rules of consensual BDSM. And yet I was so fucking angry at her I slapped her cheeks four or five times so hard her head flew in the direction I hit. With a tear in her eye, she turned her head again to give me access to her face. An immense feeling of shame, as if struck me a ton of bricks had been dropped on me. It wasn’t just a saying; I could actually feel the bricks falling on me, almost as a physical experience. I don’t have any tattoos, but the words of my father feel like a tattoo on my skin: A man who hits a woman is no longer a man. This differed from all those times I have hit Sylvia. She always consented and even asked for it. This was striking in anger and it’s about the lowest a man can sink. I wished the ground would sink away under me and bury me alive.
I had behaved with the brain of a low-school bloke instead of the mature man I was supposed to be. Despite being the scum of the earth, I found myself still attached to her wrist when I tried to escape my shame. I sprinted with such intensity that she stumbled and landed roughly on the hard, rocky surface. Trying to open the lock, I clumsily fumbled with the keys. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want to speak with her. What right did she have to have an opinion on my relation? How well did this…, this… woman think she knew me? She didn’t know me at all! I had just met her for the second time!! The second time, for crying out loud. She was crazy. Mentally disabled. Ought to be locked up! Gasping for air, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I finally successfully turned the lock and got the damn handcuff from my hand. I threw the keys on the ground and ran away. Ran like a pack of wolves were behind me and after my soul.
Sylvia didn’t answer when I called her. I tried to text her. I don’t text very much. Sylvia’s thumbs could fly and made a long text message within a minute. I had to correct all these blasted letters. Finally, I gave up all together. The rest of the day and the whole Friday, I stayed in my room. Room service for breakfast, lunch, dinner and coffee. My mind was going in circles. And going nowhere. I was thinking, but at this rate, it would drift on forever.
Sylvia’s evasive behaviour fuelled my concerns. Sure, she was smart enough to know her limits, but Martin was not to be trusted, whatever Jutta said about him. Jutta said more stupid things, right? In one day I finished Baden Baden station, and that was an accomplishment in itself, as the station was huge and had so many minute parts that had to be glued in place.
At the end of a very lonely Thursday with still no word of Sylvia and no surprise knocks on my door, I concluded I had to apologise to Jutta. I don’t have to explain it to myself, but it might help you, the reader, to understand why I was so upset about this, why it rocked my boat that much. All my life I have been proud of my self control. I have been challenged before. People have mocked me and called me a fool. People said I was weak and pitiful. And never, ever before I have lost it and hit someone, let alone a woman, in anger. So I am scared. I fear the man I have become, and even if I don’t want to admit it to myself right now, I am shitting my pants for what is going to happen next.
But I take pride in saying to be an honourable man. A gentle man. So it’s my duty, my solemn duty to apologise to this woman so I can hope for her forgiveness and move forward with my life. So I showered. Shaved. Dressed in the best outfit I brought with me. I even put on my red tie. And I took the stairs to the ground floor. Erdgeschoss in German. Jutta attended to an elderly couple at the reception desk. I waited until Jutta had walked them to their car, carrying their suitcase, and waved them off.
“Can I talk to you for a moment in private please”, I asked rather formally.
“Of course, walk into the office.”
The office was a tiny space containing a desk that was modern 60 years ago, a large cabinet from the same era, and a single chair for a visitor.
“Take a seat. How can I help you, master Koen?”
Interesting choice of words. I cleared my throat. “I want to offer my sincere apologies to you. It was unforgivable that I hit you so violently yesterday. I have not a single excuse for doing this injustice to you, and I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. Not that I deserve forgiveness, but because you won’t judge me on one – however big – mistake. Of course, I will understand if you expel us from your private club with immediate effect.”
“Master Koen.” She walked around her desk. Automatically, without thinking about it, I stood up as well. That’s how it should be. She took my hands in hers and kissed me softly on the lips. Unable to move, I stood there in complete shock.
“I remember saying to you after I delivered a very brutal assault on your wife, whom you clearly adore, and I challenged you to hit me.” I turned my cheek towards you in an invitation. And I think you must have been supernatural not to act on that. So welcome to the human race, master Koen. You, just like me or anyone else in this hotel, can do things you may regret. There’s no need to feel ashamed of your true self. You are a dominant man, a proud man. A good man. No nonsense to talk of getting out of Club Kinky Kinta. It’s your club as it is all the other members. And we survived as a club far bigger crisis than just a gentle slap in the face.
“It wasn’t…” I started.
“Let’s leave it behind us and move on to the future, shall we?” she smiled.