We saw little of Ilse for the next few weeks. She and Sandor seemed to hit it off, and they were off, shamelessly behaving like tourists, doing touristy things. One day Sandor gave her a tour on the Zr.Ms. (Zijner Majesteits, “His Majesty’s”) De Ruyter. On this marine ship he had travelled with half around the world. Ilse came home to her mother with red cheeks and could not stop telling her how great that ship was and how cool this country was. She stared at Sandor with an expression that suggested he was more than human, an almost religious adoration as if he were the returned Christ, Jesus, back on Earth.
Somehow it’s difficult to think of your child, the one you have changed its diapers, to be in the lifestyle. Ilse had been very outspoken and explicit in her shopping list for her new husband. Still, he had his father’s genes and his grandfather’s military way of taking command of the situation. All the ingredients were there. My son wouldn’t have trouble with his future mother-in-law; she adored my youngest son as much as her own daughter. The warmth between them was palpable. But it was early days, and what would happen in the long term was anybody’s guess.
I tried to contact Peter and even called Natasha’s number. Probably both had caller ID installed on their phones, because neither of them answered or called back. The knowledge that my son, my own child, didn’t want to talk to us anymore caused me an immense amount of emotional pain and sadness. Koen and Jutta were each confident things would work out. I could only hope. Two months had passed. Not a word from Peter. My other son was opting for a desk job. My father would turn in his grave. Smile. Different times. It’s commonplace for young people now to have multiple jobs throughout their careers, unlike the typical career path of previous generations. I am glad and thankful that he will settle down here. It would be great to see him more often. I knew for a fact that Koen was missing him as well.
Understanding that your divorce is final and that your former husband is marrying someone else is one thing, but it is a separate matter to fully process all the emotional implications involved. I needed to collect myself when they got back from City Hall and finally share the good news that they’ve secured a wedding date. It was hard, but I made an effort to be happy for them. I am sure they noticed, but they ignored it. Focusing determinedly on their own well-being and contentment, they apparently consciously have chosen to set aside my sadness and concentrate on their own happiness. As they should.
That night I slept in the cage in the attic. The attic was nowhere as equipped as the dungeon, but at least twice a week, Jutta and I spent a part of our day there. It was rare that Koen fucked me anymore, but Jutta fucked me at least twice a week, sometimes daily. Maintenance training, Jutta called it when she fucked my mouth with a strap-on. Sometime a thick cock, sometimes long and thin. A butt plug had become a standard accessory, like make-up. It wasn’t the same as Koen’s wonderful cock, but I understood she wanted to keep him mostly for herself.
Ilse was very excited about the wedding. Or, more precisely, the wedding prepping. She was going with us to buy a wedding dress. Yes, with US. I had to go with them. To a bridal fashion store and help the woman my ex was marrying pick out her wedding dress. At the same store I had bought mine, many years ago.
A bridal shop is a weird place. Isabella’s was the place to go if you needed a ‘special’ wedding dress. I know every dress a bride wears is special for her. Say yes to the dress, right? Isabella is a relatively small shop in the centre of Delft and you had to make an appointment for a time-slot so ‘we can give you our undivided attention’.
Although Isabella’s store may appear small from the outside, appearances can be deceptive, and these houses are deep and contained passageways to nearby buildings that were also part of the store. It was brightly lit, filled with mirrors reflecting the soft shimmer of lace and satin. Rows of dresses in every imaginable style hang on racks, from dramatic ball gowns to sleek, modern silhouettes. Fresh flowers and new fabric perfume the air, and a quiet hum of conversation punctuated by gasps of delight filled the room.
The clientele varied as much as the dresses themselves. Brides-to-be roam the store, their faces a mix of excitement and nerves. Some have brought entourages of friends, sisters, and mothers, each member offering enthusiastic opinions. Others wander alone, quietly taking it
all in, perhaps overwhelmed by the enormity of the decision ahead. I know I was at their age.
Brides glowed with anticipation, their cheeks flushed as they step out of dressing rooms, shyly asking, “What do you think?” They twirl in front of mirrors, imagining the moment they’ll walk down the aisle. Tears often glisten in their eyes as they find the one—the dress that feels like a second skin, like a dream come true. Perhaps Ilse was more excited than her mother was.
“It’s different for the second time”, Jutta murmured to me.
“Of course, mistress.”
“I long to wear that pristine white dress, but I hesitate, unsure if it’s the right choice. Wouldn’t a white wedding gown at my age be considered unusual, perhaps even inappropriate, by some?”
“This is your day, mama. Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks. Just do what feels right to you,” Ilse said.
Jutta looked at me. “You should listen to your daughter, mistress.” Jutta took a step closer towards me and whispered in my ear, “If I wear the white dress, you will have to wear to the exact same dress in black.” A chill ran down my spine as the horrifying truth dawned on me, leaving me ashen-faced.
“My family will be there as well, mistress.”
“Can I help you ladies? Who is going to be the lucky one?” A saleslady, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, interrupted, clearly assuming Jutta’s daughter was the bride, and we were the busybody mothers. Jutta and Ilse were quiet as a mouse.
“My mistress is getting married, and she is looking for a romantic white dress.” I said, looking at Jutta. In my simple dress, more like a robe made of natural burlap sackcloth, perhaps I looked like a servant girl.
The women in this shop cater stupid young girls and mature goth women alike, so they are used to your odd customer. “Of course, milady, follow me please,” she said without blinking in eye.
“It’s Jutta, please. I’m incognito today.” The words flowed from Jutta with the polished grace of a woman who had mastered the art of charm, a true mistress of her domain.
Jutta was fond of the Sissy dresses, which featured abundant layers of tulle and lace, and a wide skirt supported by a petticoat underneath. Ilse commented on every dress until they both agreed that this was the ONE. I remained in the background and helped my mistress dress in the dressing room.
“Do you have this dress a size smaller?” Jutta asked the saleslady.
“I do not recommend that you buy it smaller, Jutta. The dress you are holding now is the right size for you.” The saleslady protested.
“The second dress is hers, not mine.” Jutta nodded in my direction.
“Oh, you are getting married as well?” the saleswoman crowed. Twice the commission. A good evening for her.
“No.” I said. A wave of intense heat spread across my face, colouring my cheeks into the bright, deep red of a perfectly ripe apple.
“Oh. But you do want the dress?” The saleslady asked, confused.
“I want you to describe to this kind woman precisely what alterations you would like made to the dress,” Jutta said, addressing me directly. Unlike her typical habit of adding the term ‘slut’ as a concluding remark to her sentences, she decided against it this time. Thank God for small favours.
“I want the exact same dress as my mistress in my size. And in black.” It’s not easy to leave a saleswoman of a bridal fashion store speechless, but I was able to add that achievement to my resume.
“In black?” the saleslady piped.
“The darkest black you can find. In the event that black isn’t in your collection, I will accept a slightly higher price.” I said generously.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll discuss the options with my supervisor.” And the saleswoman fled to safer places.
Ilse giggled loud. She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the lips. “You are so lucky to have her as a mistress.” She whispered against my lips. Her whisper brushed my lips. “Don’t forget you owe her ruthlessness to me.”
“Good evening. My name is Isabella van Dijk. I understand from Petra there is a problem with a dress?” She extended her hand, but when she realised I was not the one she was supposed to shake hands with, she lowered her hand.
“I hope there is not a problem,” said Jutta, always the diplomat. “We simply want the same dress, each in our own size, but in a different colour. Surely that is possible?”
“An unusual request of course, but it is possible, I suppose,” Isabella said.
“And it will be ready at my wedding date? Both of them?”
“You need them on the same day?” Isabella just kept wondering.
“Of course,” mistress Jutta said, as if that was self-evident.
We sent the invitations. Ilse was busy making lists of guests. My sisters Sybil and Petra were among the guests that had accepted the invitation. We also invited Peter and Natascha. There has been absolutely no response of any kind whatsoever. The realisation that he would rather ignore me than confront the rift between us hurts. I know of course who was behind it—Natasha, with her cold, possessive grip, keeping Peter away like a prize hoarded from its rightful owner. Was the mother that raised him really so unbearable that he couldn’t even send a simple reply?
Still, despite everything, I longed for him to walk through the door, just once, and remind me I hadn’t lost him forever.
Lots of friends of Sandor and Ilse, a few former colleagues of Koen were invited and promised to come. Jutta added an endless list of people she wanted to be there. Whatever happened to ‘we want to keep it small?’ Having maintained contact with Zuzanna, and Kitty, the secretary of the school director, I decided to invite just them. Not my wedding.
My mistress converted the house – her house – into a hotel for her guests from abroad. You should stay with us, she said so many times on the phone, that I thought we would have to stack them in the bedrooms. She converted not only the bedrooms into sleeping quarters. All rooms, except for the kitchen, were used to make improvised sleep over facilities. Including the attic for guests from Kinky Club Kinta. Martin and Helga among them, of course. Hiring and lending stretchers that were comfortable enough to pass the test of the bride-to-be was a challenge. Getting enough food for 23 people who would stay with us was another. Showing her graciousness, Ilse made the kind offer of her room to accommodate a guest by moving into Sandor’s half-finished barn.
Three days before the wedding, the first guests arrived. Family members and a few friends from Sweden. Freja was the Swedish equivalent of my Zuzanna. A friend since kindergarten and stayed friends with her trough thick and thin. Jutta presented me to everyone as ‘Koen’s ex-wife.’I don’t think Freja likes me much. I am too busy to care. I keep running through the house, doing all odd jobs, doing emergency shopping for stuff we hadn’t thought of. And I try to keep a low profile, keeping the conversations with Jutta’s guests to a bare minimum.
All went well – to circumstances – until the rehearsal of the wedding ceremony. Hokus Pokus. Back in my time, marriages were simpler affairs; we didn’t have the elaborate rehearsals and preparations, we just got married. Jutta insisted I would dress up for the rehearsal. In my black wedding dress, of course. She didn’t wear her own dress, nor did she tell everyone she had my dress in a more virgin colour. Ilse came to admire my dress and plucked and twisted the dress until it fit to her liking. Imagine a dress rehearsal, a day before the wedding in our living room. Furniture put aside to make room for improvised beds. Some 20 people are loitering around. All dressed casually, including the groom and bride-to-be. Except for one woman in a black wedding dress who wasn’t the bride.
As soon as Freja saw me, she hurried up to me.
“What is this sick joke you are pulling on my best friend’s wedding day? Like ruining her wedding wasn’t enough. You just had to make it worse by wearing this? How much of an attention whore are you, anyway?”
I wanted to run away faster than Cinderella. To hell with my shoes. I was barefoot anyway. A look from Koen made me refrain from doing so. The murmuring in the room suddenly stopped and a very awful, deathly silence took its place. As if all those assholes here were standing in the schoolyard waiting for the two girls to settle their quarrel with a fight. I kept quiet. As a slave, you will have to do whatever M&M says. But it’s the Master and Mistress responsibility to deal with the aftermath of their decision.
Koen belatedly got that as well, cleared his throat and asked Freja and Jutta to join him outside. Koen made the ‘stay-gesture’, so I stayed where I was. It was an embarrassing situation. The guests had no idea what to do next. Avoiding conversation with me was safest, yet nobody grasped my stillness. The murmur swelled again. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but in all probability it wasn’t about the political situation in the world. I tried to hide that I was shaking visibly there, as I stood rooted in my own private spot in the living room that had been mine once, and for so long.
After half an hour, 30 minutes, 1800 seconds, 1800 eternities later, Jutta, Koen and Freja reentered the room.
“We will continue now with the ceremony, as planned,” Jutta said. Without an explanation. Without an apology. Like nothing happened. All eyes were on the attention whore for the rest of the ceremony. For a millisecond, I felt bad for Jutta about that. No longer. This had been her choice, and if the mistress had not informed her guests that she was part of a throuple, it was not my problem.
“How do you feel?” I asked the woman who was going to marry my ex-husband. We were married for 14154 days.
38 years.
2022 weeks.
She knows him for a year and eight months now, with only three days in between. Despite everything, her happiness is as radiant and overwhelming as the joy I experienced on my wedding day, a day I will always remember.
The hairdresser was busy with her hair. Another sharp contrast between me and the bride. She had beautiful long hair, I had none. Milou was the last hairdresser that made my hair beautiful. That same night, I lost all of it. Mistress Jutta said to me, “I never imagined I’d be here, exchanging vows again. Life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it? It’s not a replacement of the past but a continuation, a new chapter in my life. There are ghosts of old memories, but they don’t haunt me; instead, they remind me of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve grown, and how love can feel so right. A humbling awareness of how fortunate I am accompanies the feeling of immense gratitude for this renewed chance at love.”
She sighed and fiddled a bit with her wedding dress. A white dress with lots of lace in the bodice, with a huge petticoat under her white silk skirt. Milou had done a wonderful job doing her make-up, and she looked glorious, radiant, glowing with an effervescent blend of joy, love, and serenity. Her eyes sparkling with the promise of a cherished future.
She walked to me and took my face in her hands and said slowly “And you, my owned one? How does my cherished slut feel?” She glanced slowly at me. What she saw was an exact copy of her wedding dress. Not in white, but in the darkest black you can imagine. A prickling sensation behind my eyes gave way to tears, silently tracing a path down my face.
“Don’t be sad, Sylvia. You haven’t lost a husband, you have gained a wife and a mistress.” I didn’t keep my promise not to cry. I failed to keep many of the promises I made to Koen. Jutta never called me by my name. Sylvia van Geelen, my maiden name again, champion of broken promises.
A sense of history hung heavy in the air as the church stood solemn and grand, its steeple piercing the pale blue sky; sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, depicting biblical scenes, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of red, blue, and gold onto the cool, polished wooden pews. The clock at the top of the church showed half past ten. The soft murmur of guests, dressed in their Sunday best, filled the space—a symphony of rustling silk, delicate lace, and the squeak of polished shoes on the tiled floor. A hush fell over the crowd as men in dark suits and women in pastel dresses and wide-brimmed hats whispered excitedly, their gloved hands clutching programs; the scent of perfume competed with the mix of church smells, from incense to detergent. The organist, seated at the grand pipe organ, played a soft Bach prelude – Koen’s request, of course – the notes reverberating through the vaulted ceilings, filling the sacred space with a sense of anticipation.
Jutta was walking to the aisle in front of me, basking in the attention of the people that were standing now, in awe of her dress. She glowed at the arm of my youngest son, who looked dashing as well in his white suit.
Exactly 20 steps behind her, I followed the bride. In a black dress, a carbon copy of her white. I had barely crossed the threshold when I became aware of a wave of whispers, a rising murmur from the many people present. When the ex-wife is wearing the same dress as the new wife, it’s perhaps the biggest insult you can impose upon the newlyweds. When she wears black like she is in mourning, and she’s not, it’s the biggest humiliation she brings to herself.
But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it.
I hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded That for me, it isn’t over.
As I walked past all those people, I caught fragments of sentences. “Shameless woman, always has been”, “imagine how awful that is for the bride”, “how dare she take all that attention away?”. Walking next to me, Jutta’s child Ilse was wearing a barely decent short white dress. It looked good on her. She wore it with the carefreeness of young people. It was a scene of striking contrasts: her short, white dress against the dramatic backdrop of my long black wedding gown, a difference so visually stunning it was almost unbelievable. Well, perhaps the black lace ribbon tied to my right wrist and her left wrist would be enough to shock the few people who had not yet been appalled.
At the altar, the groom stood motionless, his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed solely on his bride. Dressed in a formal morning suit, his tie carefully knotted and his polished shoes gleaming, he appeared composed, and yet the slight quiver in his fingers betrayed his emotion. As she reached his side, he exhaled softly, as though only now remembering to breathe.
With a gentle countenance, the elderly minister cleared his throat and, in a steady, reverent tone, began the ceremony. Sacred vows were exchanged. The groom’s voice was powerful and clear, while the bride’s response trembled slightly before settling into quiet certainty. Rings were slipped on waiting fingers.
As the minister pronounced them husband and wife, a hush fell over the church, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the distant chirping of birds beyond the stained-glass windows. Then, with a nod and a warm smile, he gave his final blessing.
“You may kiss the bride.”
