“Mistress?” I asked Jutta.
“What is it, slut?” she said. We were both cleaning the hotel inside out, as potential buyers were going to come and have a look during the afternoon.
“You know what I don’t understand?” I asked, frustration simmering beneath the surface of my words.
“I haven’t got a clue, but I am pretty sure you will tell me in a few moments,” Jutta said drily.
“Why you don’t punish me after all these dreadful stories I have been reading to you? Perhaps Koen knew some of them, most of them. But that’s different. He was my husband, but you confessing all my slutness to you, and how many times I have been awful to Koen must be difficult for you. Why are you not mad at me?” I wailed.
“Is reading all of this out loud for us not enough punishment for you?”
I knew the answer to that. “Mistress, I must say it is not so.”
“I see.” I could see in her kind face that she really understood why I needed more that just pity. Or forgiveness. Or contempt. My body needed to feel so my brain could come to terms with all this sudden openness. I must make amends and pay the price to regain my wholeness.
“Do you need Koen, or just me?” Jutta asked.
“Both,” I said without thinking. “I wronged both of you.”
“Have you told us all your secrets now, my slut?
“There is just one left, mistress. One huge mistake I made.”
“Tell us tonight, so we can deal with this tomorrow. We have no time for it today, anyway. And we have wasted enough time with you today. Get a move on, slut!”
May, 17th
“Hey, soul sister, Ain’t that your sister on the radio, stereo?”, sings my older sister off-key on the phone. Madness runs in our family.
“Hey, girl.” I say to Sybil, my eldest sister and friend. “Long time no see.” And heard. That’s the relationship I have with both my siblings. Even if we don’t see each other for a while, we take off where we have left.
“I need you.”
My sister never said she needed me. My sister is independent and generous, offering assistance to others rather than requiring it.
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.”
“I will come to you, then.”
“You can’t. I’m in Switzerland staying with Harold and Yvonne.”
“Oh. OK.” Koen’s go-to phrase for procrastination.
“I don’t know what to do, sis. She is gone.
“Who is gone?” I ask, not very intelligent
“Amanda.” Sybil says
Until she married her dream girl, I guess I always assumed that Sybil’s preference for girls was just to spite my dad. It came as no surprise to me that Amanda, her wife, was very much like me. Sybil’s word was the rule within their household. And they both seemed happy with that. I know Sybil thinks she trained me as her submissive. In reality, it was the other way around. If Sybil was a good mistress to Amanda, she had me to thank for.
“But you were…” I started.
“Let’s not talk about it. I just wanted…, I don’t know what I want. I’m just lost, you know?” Sybil breaks down, crying. Crying your heart out is my job, not hers. This is not normal. I have to do something.
“Listen, let me talk to Koen for a moment. I will call you right back. I promise. Everything will be alright, girl. You’ll see. Hang in there, ten minutes at the most, OK?” Not pausing to see what her response would be, I immediately end the call and quickly speed dial Koen’s mobile phone number. Why did I call Koen? I know the answer before I called. Koen is Koen. As soon as he heard Sybil was in trouble, his first response was: You should go today. But it’s in Switzerland, Koen. Book a plane, Syl. In all of modern history, I’m quite possibly the most spoiled and pampered wife. I called Sybil, giving her my flight information so she could pick me up from the airport.
“I feel so guilty for making you come all the way down here.” Sybil said and meant the opposite.
The flight from Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam to Sion, in the heart of the Swiss Alps, takes 90 minutes. Getting to the airport, checking in and out, it all takes more time than the flight itself. Sybil is waiting for me. She looks a mess. Because my sister had always taught me to never leave the house without makeup, I am surprised to see her standing there waiting for me without even a trace of lipstick, looking as despondent as if her beloved puppy had just passed away. She hugs me as if she’s trying to squeeze all her love into that one embrace, like words could never fully express what she feels. We were never good with words; we are more the action-woman type kind of girls.
“When are you planning to tell me, girl, what happened between you and Amanda? I never imagined that you, of all couples, would be the ones to separate; you always seemed so compatible. Did you cheat on her?” I asked her when we were back in her room.
“No.”
She sits quietly, her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on nothing, as if the weight of her grief anchors her to the spot. When I reach out to touch her hand, she flinches slightly, then quickly squeezes it, her grip trembling but firm, as though afraid to let go. Her eyes, swollen and red, flicker toward me occasionally, brimming with unspoken pain, before she looks away, her silence louder than any words could be. I sigh. We are doers, not talkers. Time for drastic measures.
I slap her in the face. Once, twice. She looks bewildered. Third and fourth in rapid succession. Finally, she gets mad at me and starts slapping me back. Hard.
“That’s right”, I whisper to her. “Let it go. Release all that anger. Take it out on me. I am Amanda right now, and this is your chance to take revenge. Do whatever you like to me. Hit me. Hurt me, like you’ve never done before. You know I will probably even love it as you do. Let all the anger out, just unleash all that hurt in hurting me real good.”
“I can’t do that to you.”
I remove my raincoat’s belt and give it to her. “Tie my hands behind my back tightly. This is not a play, Sybil. This is fucking real. Tie my hands, damn you!” I shout that last part to get through to her.
She ties my hands and within 10 seconds, my hands are free.
“Again, and this time do it right.” I know she will take that as an insult. Good. I need her angry. This time my hands are tied, and they are going nowhere for a while.
I kick her full force without holding back full on her pussy. If she was wearing a skirt, maybe the impact would have been a little less, but with these pants, my foot is right on target. Her hands fly to her pussy to protect it. Sorry girl, too late. Harm has already been done. As she cringes, I straighten up and continue to watch her patiently until she comes to her senses.
“Perhaps you should find something to restrain my legs as well,” I say flippantly. She can’t believe I did that. She’s in good company; I can’t believe it either. There’s no movement yet to indicate she will tie my legs. I’m still waiting to see the passionate fire in her eyes that I so desperately yearn for; currently, she remains hesitant and apathetic, a far cry from the ardent spirit I long to witness. Without thinking now, I take a rapid step forward, bend over and bite her left breast through her clothes as hard as I can.
Before I can take a step back, she hits me with her fist in my stomach. Hard. The air rushes out of me in a sharp gasp, leaving my lungs burning and empty, like I’m drowning on dry land. Pain blossoms in my stomach, deep and throbbing, spreading like a wave that makes me double over, clutching myself. My mind races with shock — her anger hits harder than her fist, and that is the first good sign. She tears the hotel pillowcase into strips, effectively tying my ankles together.
“I am Amanda. Make me suffer for what she did to you.” I gasped.
Her fists now descend on me wherever they can reach: my chest, my cheek, my nose, my breasts. It hurts. Not good hurt, fists are almost never good hurt. This is full-blown rage that I brought upon myself. In a frenzy, she starts kicking my legs and butt. When I finally can no longer remain silent in my suffering and start softly moaning, she stops.
“I’m sorry Syl,” I heard from a distance.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I sarcastically questioned her. “You’ve grown soft in your old age; back then, you would have been just getting warmed up.”
She ripped my pants from my bottom and hit uncontrollably my bare bottom. My thighs. A hundred spanks. A thousand. Ten thousand. A million. When her hand apparently started to hurt she turned to whatever was available, the TV remote control, the hangers from the closet, the hotel guest services guide.
“Look what I have found in the fridge…”, she says meanly, “a nice little bottle of water. And I know just the place where a small bottle would fit in nicely: I have here a boiling pussy and I need your cunt to swallow that entire bottle until I don’t see it anymore, you Bitch.”
I wasn’t dry, but not soaking wet either. There is even for me a limit on how much pain a girl can take. She deftly resolved the issue by using both her finger and mouth. And yes, it hurt. And yes, she pushed the bottle inside until it was completely out of sight. And then started fucking me with the ice-cold bottle. And I came, of course.
She untied me without a word. I was not in a talking mood either. After we did our business in the bathroom – we are sisters, so there is no reason to take turns – we crash on the bed. I spooned my sister who was hurting so much and fell asleep.
The next day at breakfast, she apologises again. I wave with my hand.
“We can talk about it later. You can excuse yourself until you’re breathless, if you’d like,” I say. “But first, I need to know what happened between you and Amanda.”
“I was completely smitten by Amanda, you know that. And she loved me. And she was submissive, so we matched as if made in heaven. You know a dominant has to push the limits sometimes to keep the action lively and not boring. Until recently, she was fine with that. I was so happy. I was so fucking happy I couldn’t believe my luck. That should in and of itself had been a warning signal. A huge red flag. Our action became less frequent. I was fine with that. We are not a young couple anymore that needs the sex daily. I mean, we’re all slowing down, right?
So, a week ago, she comes to me out of the blue and says that she wants to quit. I made the terrible mistake to think I could dominate her into staying. My only intention was to convince her she needed this as much as I did. She subsequently threatened legal action and to contact the police about her being raped. That same day, she packed her bags and left. Her last words were: “I will send the police after you.’ So in panic, I left the country and now I’m here. God, what a mess!” She hides her face in her hands.
“Are you finished with breakfast?” I asked, pointing at her half full plate.
“Yes, I’m not hungry anymore.”
I stand up, bend over the table and look her in the eye. “Do you know what bastinado is?” I ask her.
Despite everything, she snorts. “Of course I know what bastinado is.”
“Good.” I say with satisfaction in my voice. “Then you can beat my feet until I can’t walk anymore when we come back to your room.”
It took some persuasion for me to convince her I literally meant what I said. With feet on fire, we both made each other come a few times. She can eat pussy like I can suck dick. It’s an art form. What I lack in experience, I make up with enthusiasm. We were animals. We stayed in bed all day, with love and tenderness and with cruelty and submission. To finally fall asleep satisfied in a way we both remembered as teenagers.
The next day we discovered a new game, how many times I could offer both my hands forward until I could not bear another hit of the iron curtain rod. I think my stubbornness to hold my hands straight before me again and again intimidated her. So at the end of day two, she had to feed me room service, because I could not hold a piece of cutlery in my hands anymore. I could still hobble to the toilet, but that was about the extent of my mobility.
We were lying in bed, the two of us, as they say. A little tired but satisfied. Softly Sybil says,
“I need it. I don’t just want it; I need it. It makes me a junkie to power and control. It makes me feel alive when I have control over someone. The more control that is given to me, the more I want. I’m greedy. And selfish. But I can’t live without it.”
I sighed. “My needs are opposite to yours, but no less intense. If I can trust you to dominate me without Koen will find out, I will agree to be your slave when we get home. I need to be your slave when we get home. Koen is wonderful, you know that, the best man I could ever wish for, but he doesn’t fill my unbridled, unfulfilled need inside.”
I am Sybil’s slave for two years now. She is dating again, and this time it feels right for her. A very fulfilling period is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it. It won’t make it any easier to end this secret incestuous relationship.
“You must inform Koen about this; you really need it.”
“I can’t. It appears he has moved on. He’s not the same as when we just got married. For some reason he seems to have lost his dominant side.”
“Nonsense. Some people – perhaps most people in our lifestyle – can bury this feeling for a long time. They can live a vanilla life if they want to, if they love their partner very much. And Koen’s love for you is beyond dispute. You need to convince him he has a choice, either step up and be the one in control of the relationship, or step down and let you be free to find someone who will,” Sybil said.
“I can’t do that”, I said indignantly. “I can’t imagine a future without him. Perhaps I should be the one to suppress my feelings.”
“You cannot. Perhaps you want to, but your libido is simply stronger than your willpower. You can remain vanilla for a long time, but somewhere along the way a tall stranger will come around the corner, order you to drop your panties and the only thing you can do is look at your panties on the floor. There is only one long term solution. Talk to Koen.”
I closed my journal. Last big secret was out in the open now. Was I relieved? Perhaps. Was I free of guilt? Not until I payed the penalty in full.
Koen said, “Finally, some light upon that sudden move of yours. Do you regret making the move that night?”
“Of course not, Master. All the negative things that happened are of faults of my own. I hope you are happy now, Master with your new wife.” I want to make it explicitly clear to you, my reader, that there was absolutely no resentment intended or implied in that particular phrase.
Telling them all these dreadful stories. Who said: ‘The truth will set you free?’ Jesus? Dr. Martin Luther King? Jutta and Koen insisted I would tell them the truth and no longer hide behind my lies.
“This is my last big secret, Master. Mistress. I understand I deserve to be punished and I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit to give me.”
“There is only one punishment left that fits the crime, Sylvia.” Koen said, his voice sad. How I regretted my selfish behaviour to hurt this wonderful man. “If we did the same as Sybil did, and take it out on you, bringing you pain beyond anything you have ever suffered before, it would mean a reward instead of punishment. I cannot punish a true masochist with pain. I know you have that in mind. But I will not reward you.”
He paused. Koen needs time. Koen is Koen.
“You have read my story about how it almost went wrong for us. How I have found my new love. Now you will write a story about the Bad Girl you have been. You can purify your soul, freeing yourself from the weight of your worries with each word written and finding release through confession to the paper.
You’ll feel lighter.”