The old lady who was sitting next to me in the foyer of Jutta’s hotel patted gently my hand.
“I know what you are going through. I have had chemo when they took my second breast away.” She looked into my eyes with a knowing smile and said, “I remember when mine started falling out—it was tough, but we got through it, didn’t we?” Then, she reached out gently and added, “Your strength shines brighter than any hair ever could.” Finally, with a wink, she said, “Besides, we’re rocking this look better than anyone else!”
I smiled. Because of my bald head, hotel guests made a plethora of assumptions, yet none of them deduced the relationship between my shaved head and my collar. Given Koen’s and Jutta’s preference for keeping their personal lives separate from the knowledge of their guests, I usually chose not to rectify the often well-intentioned, but ultimately inappropriate, remarks made by those guests in an attempt to be supportive. I enjoyed my conversations with the hotel guests, the majority of whom were in high spirits and clearly relishing their holiday time.
Life, after the hectic start, leading to the cutting of my beautiful hair, had settled back into its usual rhythm and routine. I helped the staff with breakfast and dinner. I helped to clean the rooms. Koen and Jutta were in a world of their own. They held hands often, as if making up for lost time. Their laughter came easily, filling the quiet moments with warmth. When they walked together, their steps stayed close, unhurried, content. In every glance they shared, there was a softness that spoke of deep gratitude and love.
Jutta took me to the dungeon on Thursday after I finished cleaning the rooms on the first floor. Koen was already there.
“Sylvia, what will it take to make you feel at home again?” Koen asked.
“I cannot answer that.” I said.
“You have to. We cannot go on like this.”
“Perhaps I want to tell you, but I can’t.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” He threatened.
“I haven’t got a clue.”
The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating: “I want you out of this house by midnight and never come back.”
Overwhelmed by emotion, I dissolved into uncontrollable sobbing, my body shaking with each breath. Tears blurred my vision as I clutched my chest, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—only feel. He had to mean that, and why wouldn’t he be angry with me? He had every right to. Such coldness in his tone. So final. The world around me faded, leaving nothing but the raw ache of my heart laid bare. With my world falling apart and tears streaming down my face, I looked to Koen for comfort but found only an impassive figure, completely motionless and with an unchanging expression that betrayed no empathy or even a flicker of concern for my emotional collapse. I knew with an unwavering conviction that we were finally, completely done. I wanted to stop shaking, but I couldn’t somehow.
The softest lips, cool and gentle, caressed my bare skull. Soft butterfly kisses, each one a whisper of fleeting warmth, landed on my head.
“I think I know what you need, pretty girl, but you will be the one that tells him. I can’t do that for you. It’s your only way out of this mess.” Jutta whispered.
“I need…” I started so softly my words had difficulty reaching my ears.
“Harder!” Koen shouted at the top of his lungs.
I was shocked, but he got what he wanted. My voice was loud and angry. Angry at myself. Full of self-loathing, I said, “I need you to destroy me. Shatter me, pulverise me, reduce me to nothingness, until the stench of my lies is all that remains. After there is nothing left of my old self, if it pleases you, you can rebuild me, piece by piece, so you will have finally the woman you truly deserve.”
Jutta walked towards Koen and lost her dress on the way to him. Fully naked, she pushed her body against him. Koen was still looking at me as she whispered in his ear. I couldn’t make out their anxious conversation, but it went on for ages. Their embrace mirrored a slow, watery descent; they were drowning, clinging to each other for dear life. My legs couldn’t carry me any longer, I collapsed to the floor. A stench of mildew and decay hung heavy in the dungeon air; I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it earlier. They both ignored me completely, neither giving me a second glance. My misery was so intense that the thought of dying right then and there was utterly inconsequential; I felt numb. I closed my eyes, and the world faded into a blissful silence.
A sudden lightness overcame me as I was lifted and carried, the movement smooth and swift. I kept my eyes firmly closed, unwilling to see what lay before me. Against better judgement, I was hoping I was not being thrown on the streets without a shred of clothes on my body. Someone pulled my hands behind my back. I felt the familiar tension of rope as my hands were bound firmly together. I tried to open my eyes, but complete darkness prevented me from seeing. They must have blindfolded me somewhere along the way. Or I was suddenly blind. I’ve lost all my bearings and understanding.
“If I say ‘I forgive you’, you’ll think it’s too easy, right? We need to earn our own forgiveness. Forgive me if it’s making no sense to me at all. But fortunately for you, Jutta seems to understand. Perhaps it’s a girls’ thing. But she has volunteered to hurt you, body and soul. So we throw safe in the trash, we flush sane through the toilet and rip out the page with consensual on it from our dictionary.”
Suddenly, he slaps my cheek. Left. Right. Left. Right. A pause. I hear his hard breathing and three hard slaps land on my right cheek. At a killer pace, he starts to slap my tits. Hard. And for a long time. From left to right. From bottom to top. Hard and very hard. Without a pause, he hits my cheek so hard my face jerks to the right as a result of the blow. It’s the hardest blow he has ever given me. All his anger and frustration were there in that wallop. Even before his hand touched my face, I could feel the warmth radiating from his palm against my skin. Without thinking, I was licking his hand. Tiny licks. I poured all my love for him into those little licks against his hand. I hear the sharp intake of his breath. Suddenly, I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper lowered, sucking sounds and Jutta moan over his dick.
“You like that, huh? Perhaps I should slap you as well, you hussy?” He wasn’t talking to me, and vented all his emotions now on my poor mistress. He didn’t. Slap her. Thank God. My guilt was undeniable, but she was blameless. I kept silently licking his hand until I felt him tremble.
“I’m coming, you slut. Suck all that come into your whore’s mouth. Don’t swallow yet, I want to see it before you do, slave. You tart, you bimbo, you … ahhh. That’s it, you cocksucker. Show me.” He wasn’t talking to me.
“Please don’t be mad at my mistress, master. Be mad at me.” He did what I asked him. He hit me with wind force 10. There was no escape possible. His flat hand with the strength of a fist against my face. Apparently, the promise of never hitting me in anger was thrown out of the window as well. Jutta’s body, pliant and yielding, slid between Koen and me. Her murmured words were soft and low, like a calming balm, soothing him as if he were a child having a tantrum. His hands, undoubtedly warm and throbbing with pain, would probably feel exactly like my burning face.
All at once, the vibrant buzz of the dark room vanished, leaving a heavy, still silence in its wake. I heard Jutta and Koen leave the dungeon, talking softly to each other. Despite my desire to remain standing, I lacked the strength. I sank to my knees, but had the presence of mind to remain there. Motionless, while my emotions rushed through me like a river bursting its banks, each wave crashing against the walls of my mind, unstoppable and wild.
In the aftermath of my confession, there was a distinct lack of verbal communication; however, the subsequent actions undertaken spoke volumes, far surpassing any spoken words in terms of impact and clarity. Every day, after I helped the staff preparing the breakfast buffet, the mistress took me to the dungeon.
“You will no doubt be pleased to know that on weekdays, I will assume complete control over your life. For now, the weekends belong to your Master and me. Master Koen is busy converting your room into a proper cell, so you can spend Saturday and Sunday in total solitude. Be sure you thank Master Koen this afternoon for making your life miserable. From now on, until I say otherwise, I will strictly enforce high protocol. All day, every day.”
Mistress walked well into my comfort zone and stared me in the eyes. “You are my property, and I will write your instruction manual, even if it kills me. Do you understand?”
“I am not sure what you mean, mistress.”
“Master Koen has given me a very complicated gift, and I have no idea what I can do with it. I’m going to experiment, figuring out what techniques are effective and which ones aren’t, through trial and error. The first thing I am going to do is to map your body in detail. She used a measuring tape to measure my head, not just the size from the top of my head to my chin, but also vice versa, to where my neck begins. With a board marker, she added several points on my body where she started and stopped measuring. My nose, the length from my virtual eyebrows (I was hairless all over my body, except for my eyelashes) to the tip of my nose. The width she was measuring with callipers, as well as both of my nostrils. She conducted a thorough examination of my teeth, noting which tooth had a filling and other relevant details.
She meticulously documented every detail on a sheet of paper showing a complete visual representation of a woman from the front, back, and sides. My chest, my breasts, my legs, hips. Even my inner and outer labia and the width and length of my clittie hood, both in rest as well as my clit poking out, did not escape her wish to map all of my body. When she finally got to my toes, length, width, thickness, shape of the nails, I was so totally humiliated as I was never before. There was no detail of my body that had escaped her attention. Even two of my scars were carefully noted.
“High Protocol. Do you know what it means, slave?” Mistress asked.
“Do not speak until spoken to and end each sentence with Master of Mistress, Mistress.” I said.
“Wrong. High Protocol is nothing more or less than our lifestyle etiquette. With one word, I will control your speech, your behaviour, and your attitude. So, do you know what to do when I say to you ‘return to high protocol’?”
I learned my lesson. “No, mistress.”
“That’s right”, Jutta said approvingly. “You do not know because I have not taught you this. But I will. And all you will have to do is obey with lightning speed and you will be fine, girl. High Protocol means in every relationship another set of rules, slut. And you can count on it that at first my rules will be very strict. Let us start with speech restriction. You will respond only to me and, of course, Master. Never initiate any verbal communication. There are only three answers possible ‘Yes Mistress’, ‘No, Mistress’ and ‘May I ask a question, Mistress.’
So the next two days, I was not allowed to say a single word. Not in the hotel to the guests (I made gestures like I had lost my voice), not the staff (ditto) and not even “auw” in the dungeon. It was hard for a blabbermouth like me. But I did it. I couldn’t detect any sign that Jutta was pleased, if indeed she was. Next was posture training. I learned an entire list of positions. ‘Inspection’, with your hand behind your the back of your head and your feet at shoulders’ width. ‘Wall’, leaning towards the wall, feet apart and my hand crossed against the wall. ‘Collar’ is the same as Inspection, only on your knees.
The list was endless. “Doll’, ‘Bara’, ‘Bracelets’, ‘Tower’, ‘Reverse Prayer’, ‘Slave Lips’ This slave turns her head up to her Mistress, puckering her lips as she does so. She waits motionless, forbidden to move until her Mistress’ kiss releases her. Or Koen’s favourite: ‘Nadu’, where this slave kneels with her thighs spread wide, her back arched, her head held high.
These positions were all subjected to countless hours of diligent and repetitive practice. Jutta meticulously reviewed and adjusted the posture time and time again, striving for accuracy and perfection in every detail, and she repeated this process each time I assumed my position. The task that proved to be the most challenging and exhausting was having to repeat all these positions in a random sequence. Jutta would shout “Bara” and I would drop to my belly, head turned to the left. I cross my ankles and place my wrists, also crossed, in the small of my back. Torso and waist straight. Thighs together. Legs straight. Feet: ankles crossed, feet pointed, hand behind back just above my butt. Within seconds, after taking on this posture, Jutta would bark Tower. As quick as I can come to a kneeling position on both knees, my feet bent, supported on the toes, butt resting on the heels. My back should be straight, knees together, my arms at the sides with my hands crossed in my lap. My eyes should be aimed at the floor unless directed otherwise.
“Nadu”. “Humble”. “Bara”. “Inspection”. “Bara”. “Nadu”. With no rhyme or reason, the commands follow each other at an exhausting pace. While these tasks are achievable when you’re feeling refreshed and focused, fatigue after about half an hour inevitably leads to errors. After the long sessions, Mistress will point out every minor mistake I made. And each mistake counts for one slap with her leather belt. I am getting better at it. 55 kisses from the belt are rare these days. Mistress likes to show off how well I am getting at assuming a pose right after she barks the command. Koen loves it. I believe her motivation for this rigorous training comes more from a desire to please him than from any selfish goals. I guess it is more a guy’s thing. They love it when a naked woman humiliates herself by bending over backwards.
So I am learning how to please her. During the massage, I become familiar with all her sensitive areas. I learn how to make her come hard and fast at her command, or on other days mellow and slow. I learn to give my Master better head. With Jutta behind me, whipping me with a rattan stick to correct me if I do something wrong or show too little enthusiasm.
Does the reader remember the bed from Kink Paradise with the cage underneath? The one we didn’t buy? The one Koen said to have no need for? It’s in the Master bedroom now. Never has been a more accurate title for a room than that one. On weekdays, I am in my cage, underneath the noisy lovers on the bed. On weekend days, I am in my own ‘room’. No wallpaper on the walls, no carpet on the floor. Just a matrass on the floor and an iron bucket in the corner to relieve myself. Zero distractions. No books, radio or tv. Koen has blinded the window from outside. No lights. Solitary confinement. Got any idea how long that weekend stretches, starting Friday night and ending with the Monday 6 AM door opening? With nothing to do, and no one to see? Lucky you. Next Monday, I’ll gladly return to my cage; to be with my Master and Mistress is oddly soothing.
