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UNDER A MISTRESS’ SPELL

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Beneath the Surface

Emanuel J.

Cover: Giada Armani

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

Beneath the Surface

I don't know why I'm waiting here in front of the supermarket with my half-filled jute bag in my hand. The few things I need for today have been bought; there is no reason to stand around any longer. A small red car drives up the steep ramp to the upper parking deck, the sliding doors of the entrance flit silently to the side in front of a large woman who comes trudging up with her empty shopping cart like a chariot. Somewhere, a child is crying.

That's when she comes out, the woman whom I asked to get a can of corn from one of the top shelves inside the market. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, a blue windbreaker. She was quite small, had short dark hair with little curls and a narrow face and does not look very pretty, she is not my type. There are only a few things in her cart, packed cheese, a butcher's bag, razor blades for a lady razor, two milk bags, and a loaf of bread. Our eyes meet for a short moment and like spotlights her big caramel brown eyes sparkle at me, as if they wanted to illuminate me and also immerse the darkest corners of my soul in bright light. She immediately turns away from me again, it‘s almost over when she suddenly pauses.

A second time her eyes light me up and her voice sounds clear through my breathless silence. "You waited for me?"

Oh! She seemed to have a very direct nature. It's not my style. Helplessly I shrug my arms, shake my head and nod half-heartedly, all at the same time; I feel like an idiot.

A fine smile surrounds her narrow lips. Although she's probably a little younger than me, in her mid-twenties, I guess, she seems mature and serene. "It's all right..." Challengingly, she stretches her chin forward. "Same time tomorrow, you'll be back here!" It doesn't sound like a suggestion or a request, no, it sounds like an order.

Without realizing it, she's blocking the entire entrance. A man in craftsman's clothes slips past her into the market, a woman who wants to come out with a shopping cart but finds no gap and has to stop and gives her an annoyed look, which she does not register. Or maybe she does? Anyway, she's moving on now, leaving a smile behind for me.

I also go out and see her pushing her cart into the elevator that takes you to the upper floor of the parking lot. My way leads me to the four-lane street and there at the nearby pedestrian light to the tram stop, which is in the middle of the lanes. Bumper to bumper, innumerable cars are forcing their way out of the city, illuminated by the mild autumn evening sun. What in heaven's name was that? Tomorrow at the same time again there in the supermarket? What the hell is she doing? She's clearly acting bossy. What about me? Have I been submissive? Well, when she suddenly approached me so decisively, it caused a strange tingling sensation in me. Oh, nothing will happen, because she won't be there! And I probably won't either.

Several lines lead from here to the main station, so that one never must wait long for a tram. A very lively, jam-packed tram always comes around this time. Fortunately, the trip takes only a few minutes. Four stations and I have reached the city centre and must go from the stop at most a hundred meters to my apartment. This is located a little off the beaten track of the pedestrian zone on the first floor of an old, three-storey apartment building. It is directly above a baby shop, which I have no business with. When I arrive at the top, I make a cup of coffee and try to forget the strange encounter with the strange dark-haired woman...

The next day in the office, in a quiet moment, my thoughts wander now and then to this woman whom I will never see again. And I can't see her again. Yes, it had been delightful to risk a moment's glimpse into that hidden corner of my soul, which I usually keep well closed. What takes place there is something for the imagination, not for reality. Because things like submissiveness and obedience do not belong to a man, nor to a woman for that matter, they do not fit the demands that our Western modern world places on the individual. You must be self-confident, strong, self-sufficient, and individualistic. Not submissive. Paradoxical only that the recognition of a tendency to devotion would be an expression of individuality, but this is a thought that I prefer not to hang on to, because it gets too complicated there. Then I must think of Ilona, my girlfriend, who has nothing to do with such things and would fall out of the clouds knowing about my subliminal desires. It's time to focus on work...

As is so often the case, the punctual end of the working day will once again be a thing of the past. I still have some customer inquiries to answer. One wants to know, what happens, if less than the estimated three thousand litres of fuel oil fit into the tanks, whether then the price changes or a small quantity surcharge becomes due. I e-mail him that it is not a problem if the difference is not more than five hundred litres, and I hope when sending the e-mail that it will perhaps calm the good man down.

It's just before six when I finally leave the office. My colleagues have already left, but the boss and owner of the shop is still here, as almost always. She doesn't leave until the last of our six trucks comes back. As I cross the large courtyard, one of them, our smallest, a seven and a half tonner, drives in and it is suitable for supplying houses in narrow alleyways. The gray-haired older driver Matt waves to me. I'm glad I don't have his job, crawling around in dusty basements, always dirty and reeking of oil. Although, on the other hand, there are probably advantages to not sitting in an office all day.

The supermarket is located on the other side of the four-lane road that separates the industrial area from a residential area. When I reached it, I pulled the Smartphone out of my jacket pocket like a mechanic and saw that it was exactly six o'clock. What am I doing here? I don't need anything. As expected, the dark-haired one didn't come. But while I'm here, I could pick up a bottle of whiskey.

The entrance door flits to the side in front of me and inside the front of the second door I move away from a guy who advertises for a regional electricity provider at a blue-painted stand. Then I explain to the blonde woman at the stand opposite that I don't want paid television and a Bundesliga subscription, because television itself, as well as football, are pretty annoying. Why can't one go shopping without being bothered by the dubious achievements of our strange civilization? Slightly irritated, I turn away from the blonde.

Here she comes! The dark-haired one! Well, yes. Was I secretly hoping for this? She is again dressed in jeans, T-shirt and her blue wind jacket. She approaches me with a small delighted smile. She stops right in front of me, pushes her shopping cart aside so as not to block the way, and looks me in the eye. "There you are. Good boy."

I'm not really a boy anymore at twenty-eight years old, but it feels good, that's what I'm feeling through and through. I don't know how to respond, I suddenly feel completely helpless under the gaze of her shining spotlight eyes, and I have trouble not to lower gaze in front of her.

She smiles understandingly, "I know you like that. - Do you know the Café Triller downtown?"

I nod and this time I can think of some words. "It's not far from my apartment."

"Good. We'll meet there Monday night at eight o'clock. Then we can talk about everything." Without waiting for confirmation, she rolls the shopping trolley in front of the second entrance door, which obediently moves to the side in front of her, and puts a piece of paper into one of the back jeans pockets, presumably the shopping list. She's about to vanish from my sight.

I don't need any whiskey I decide and leave the supermarket, steel eyed by the blonde as I go. Who apparently listened to our short conversation, instead of chatting to passing customers obtrusively from the side. I pretend I don't see her.

Friday is All Saints Day, a holiday and a long weekend I spend with Ilona. She lives about twenty kilometres from the city in a small village, which is difficult to reach by train. I have no choice but to make the three-quarter of an hour journey with two transfers because I don't have a car and don't need one here in the city. Anyway, it's worth the trouble. Ilona picks me up at the little train station. She's very pretty, half-length page-haired wheat blonde, chubby soft face with full lips that are almost always without lipstick, and a curvy figure mostly squeezed into jeans and covered by a feminine top. She is a computer scientist, just finished her studies, and started a job in a medium-sized software company a quarter of a year ago. We've been together for almost a whole year, and now she shines at me with her blue eyes, I sometimes am a little irritated that she seems to love me so deeply. Of course, I love her too, but I must confess that I am hardly in a position to be so intimate.

On Saturday evening, we drive in her small blue car into the city to a party of some acquaintances of hers. All yuppies, smart, neat, with cultivated small talk, not quite my world. After all, there is good red wine, which makes it possible to drink the evening away beautifully. And on top of that, there is the prospect of something longed for: Ilona's promising smile reveals that as the party goes on she gets more and more keen on me.

The fact that I have assessed her correctly becomes apparent when we arrive at her place around two o'clock at night and immediately rush to her bed without further delay. There are certainly many men who would love to fuck her, and the fact that I of all people am the chosen one sometimes seems like a miracle to me. However, I must say, happiness is clouded today. Vanilla sex. It's beautiful, of course, but there's something that would appeal to me more.

Then, when she lies next to me, purring and cooing, her back against my chest, and I tenderly stroke her thick hair, the dark hair spontaneously comes to my mind. Ilona is a thousand times more beautiful than that woman, and she is loving and tender, a real angel. But the small, inconspicuous thought is the promise of something that at this moment seems more tempting to me than anything else. My hand wanders between Ilona's legs and gently touches her hairy pussy without bothering me that it is still wet and sticky from my cum.

Maybe it's the alcohol that gives me the courage, at least I start speaking unexpectedly, or to be more precise, it's more like someone is speaking out of me. "Oh, Ilona, there's a desire in me you don't know about yet..."

She clings to me and her voice sounds contrite, "I can imagine... Men like it when a woman goes down on them... I've thought of that before. Someday I'll be able to."

I've long since given up the hope of getting a blow job from her, at least for the most part. "That's not... That's not the main thing, anyway."

My courage almost leaves me, but this inner voice that speaks from me is quite brave, "You know... sometimes I yearn... for you to be a little hard on me."

"What do you mean, hard? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, that you give me orders to obey... and maybe chastise me if I don't." I listen to my own words in amazement. So, that's how I expressed it. How I came to think of the funny word chastise is a mystery to me.

She's moving a little away from me. "What?" The next moment she laughs cooingly, "In the old days, they used to chastise naughty children. But thank God those days are over. We're not reviving them. Sometimes your jokes are really funny."

I should have known she wouldn't take it seriously, and I knew it. Hope, however, is known to die last. Now she has crushed my hopes. With resignation I draw back my hand.

Which doesn't bother Ilona, though. She's snuggling up to me again. "Sleep tight, sweetheart. And dream of something beautiful... Dream of me kissing you."

Yes, of course... But my dreams are of a different kind now, I prefer to keep them to myself so as not to be laughed at again by her.

Soon her steady breaths tell me she's asleep. Of course, I don't know what she's dreaming about, and I don't want to know either. I sleeplessly roll from one side to the other, finally I get up again. I drink the opened bottle of red wine in the living room until it is empty and think of the inconspicuous dark-haired woman, who probably only plays a perfidious game with me and doesn't seriously think about fulfilling my wishes. The whole world is only illusion, delusion, limitation, Maya, behind which the true self is hidden, and Moksha, salvation, from which I am quite far away. Only at five o'clock in the morning I lie down again next to the peacefully slumbering Ilona and find now finally get the longed-for rest...

The next day both of us do not say a word about my attempted confession, but rather pretend as if it had never happened. Blessed are the repressors, as long as they can repress. As usual, I make my way home on Sunday evening, because otherwise the awkward train ride would drive me out of bed much too early. Ilona also needs the evening to prepare a lecture planned for next day and understandably wants to be undisturbed.

She takes me in her car to the train station and holds me around the neck as if I were setting off on a trip around the world and coming back at the earliest in half a year, if at all. Lovingly her blue eyes shine at me.

"I look forward to next weekend." Her smile is promising. "And at some point, I will. I promise."

I think about how beautiful she is, a real jewel. For a moment, I imagine how dreamlike it would be if her lips actually closed around my cock, but then I must hurry, because the train is rumbling. On the way home it starts to rain and now it is getting late in the evening. November has hardly begun, it is already getting the credit for its bad reputation, cold and wet...

Café Triller is located in the middle of the pedestrian zone between one of the city's largest department stores and a spacious shoe shop, not far from me. Within a few minutes I hurried there in the cold drizzle. Most of the many tables in the hall-like high room are still free. Monday evening is not a night out and the weather does not lure people out of the house. Only crazy people on the way? No, not at all. Finally, there are good reasons for a short trip to the city. I sit down near the long bar so that I have the glass entrance door in my sight. But what for, anyway? The dark-haired one won't come anyway. Shaking my head, I accuse myself of being an incorrigible pessimist and also of loving to wallow in self-pity. This should change eventually, I plan and imagine at the same time how I will find my way home in half an hour at the latest, after I am deprived of all expectation and hope.

To prepare myself for the coming disappointment, I order bourbon, a double one, without soda and ice from the gawky-dry waitress with the long brown hair. When I take the first sip and the golden liquid ran pleasantly into my throat, really optimistic thoughts brighten my mind: If the dark-haired one doesn't appear, I still have my Ilona, with whom I'm quite lucky. If she knew who I was waiting for and what I was waiting for, she would no longer understand the world or at least not me. Actually, I don't understand myself. Or do I? Perhaps it is not so wrong or even necessary to fathom one's inner desires and look for ways to realize them.

"Well, completely lost in thought?" That's the voice of the dark-haired woman. She's standing right in front of me. So, watching the door didn't really work out. She sits across from me at a round table and smiles, perhaps a bit smugly, as she gets to know me. "This whisky seems to be really making you happy."

"Well, I don't drink much. But sometimes I like bourbon like this one."

Knowing, she raises her eyebrows, "You drink bourbon? Women's whiskey?" Before I can answer anything, she has words ready. "Whether you drink much or little is up to you. I won‘t buy you alcohol anyway." The waitress, who has just approached the table, is surprised to see what the dark-haired woman doesn't seem to be interested in me anymore. She orders a red wine, waits until we're alone again, and looks at me inquisitively, "What's your name anyway?"

"Valentine,” I answer shyly.

She nods like she agrees to that name. "And my name is Gudrun.”

Really? I had never met a Gudrun before. And it’s not the most appealing of names, at least not to my ears. I'm not saying that I'd like it yet, because he wasn't born to be a flatterer but things can change.

She smiles fatalistically, "I can imagine that you don't like it. Hardly anybody likes it. But no matter. You must not address me by my name anyway, but think up another form of address, one that corresponds to our relationship. On Wednesday night we'll Skype together and then I want to hear it from you."

A form of address that corresponds to our relationship? Her words immediately haunt my head over exactly what she means by that. And why does that sounds pretty exciting to me?

She gets her red wine brought, drinks a sip and smiles pensive, "When you Skype, Sofie can see you too."

Sofie? Who's that supposed to be?

Of course, she doesn’t miss the question in my eyes. Her smile becomes mysterious. "Sofie is my slave. She's wanted a play partner for some time now. And that could be you."

What? You want me to be a slave's play partner? That sounds incredible. I wonder if this woman's making fun of me.

She takes out a wide purse from her small leather shoulder bag, puts a five-euro note next to her glass and pushes a note with Gudrun Hörmirzu written on it. "That's my Skype Name. Video call me at eight on Wednesday and do what I tell you." She takes another sip and rises, looks down at me with a warning look, "Be good!"

Before I can answer anything, she turns away and leaves the café, which is now half full, without me noticing the guests coming in.

Distraught, I drink my whisky in one go. That was the appearance of a mistress, without question. And it doesn't look like she's making fun of me, but rather like she's really serious about it. A pleasant tickle stirs at the idea of perhaps actually becoming her slave. What am I doing?

There are a lot of charming ideas that will make me sleep-deprived over the next two nights and make me jerk off more than once, which I really shouldn't talk about...

On Wednesday morning, I arrive at the office rather wobbly and am insulted by a caller during the course of the day because of the high fuel oil prices. He accuses me of "these damn oil multinationals not getting their necks full" and that "the little man is always being ripped off by everyone anyway". Since I'm not one of the fucking multinationals and don't rip off any little men, I don't have to take the accusations personally and can assure him that it's not us who drive the price of heating oil to ever dizzying heights. Still beside himself with indignation, he slams the phone shut and I hope with little business loyalty that he will order his oil somewhere else and that I will never hear from him again. This working day will also come to its deserved end at some point...

In front of the camera

With growing nervousness, I take a shower at home after drinking coffee and put on fresh clothes, my latest jeans and a dark red T-shirt. I feel like I am getting ready for an interview, I would like to be accepted, but don't know if that would be good for me. Shortly before eight o'clock I start the Skype. I have long since added the name of the dark-haired woman to my contacts and it was confirmed by her. After two ringing tones the connection is established and moments later her face fills my laptop screen. The announced (or promised?) slave is yet to be seen.

On the other hand, the dark-haired woman looks prettier than usual, has put on a discreet make-up and made up her lips in pastel red lipstick, and you can also see the upper edge of a blue collar, which betrays that she is not wearing a simple T-shirt as usual, but a more feminine piece of clothing. Apparently, she's dressed up too, a little bit at least.

Her smile is pleasing, although a little blurred, which is not due to her, but to the once again not so optimal connection quality. And her words are not in sync with her lip movements. "You're on time. Very praiseworthy."

Again, I don't know what to say, as it is almost always the case with her. She probably thinks I'm a stupid hillbilly. Had I been honest, I would have had to confess that I had longed for this encounter with too much excitement to be even a second late. But I don't have to tell her everything. So, I hold back. "Well... I guess I have no choice but to be on time." But my answer is not really reserved as I intended, I feel confused.

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