UNDER A MISTRESS’ SPELL

3 / 7

Departure

Emanuel J.

Cover: Giada Armani

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

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.

Departure

One second eats another, each dying hour is replaced by a new one, one day follows the next in a constantly flowing stream that cannot be stopped or dammed up. Relentlessly, it is getting closer, the weekend of the boot camp, which I am afraid of and which I am only looking forward to a little bit in the furthest corner of my dark soul.

As requested by the mistress, I have submitted a day-off for Friday, so that we can leave in the afternoon. I wanted to go to the country, I gave as a reason in the store, and somehow that is true.

At twelve o'clock on Friday, I appear at my mistress’s, who has also taken the day off. And who is dressed as usual, with jeans and a T-shirt, a white one today. As requested, no, ordered by her, I brought my blue sports shoes. She ties them together and hangs a little sign with my name on it, then does the same with Sofie's red sneakers and stows both pairs in one of the transparent plastic bags, of which there is a whole range here thanks to the sex shop.

Sofie, who has not had to take time off because she schedules her own working hours, asks the question that also interests me: "What do we actually need trainers for?

"I don't know," says the mistress. "All I was told was to ask you to bring them. Just let yourself be surprised."

Sofie looks pretty in her short colourful summer dress, which is appropriate for the temperatures. But her face does not appear summery fresh, but rather skeptical. "And what should I pack?"

"Nothing. The little you need, you'll get there. That means you can take a toothbrush with you."

Sofie's look is filled with consternation, but she says nothing and wants to put the toothbrush in her handbag.

The mistress shakes her head again. "The bag stays here too. Possessions only burden."

"But my smartphone. I need that."

"Nope. No phone calls there. No tweets or anything."

Now Sofie is close to tears. "But I can't do without it! Must keep in touch. I'm not living without this thing."

The mistress remains cool and hard. "It is strictly forbidden. You'll live."

For a moment it looks as if Sofie wants to rebel, but then she submits to her fate. "Maybe there's some good in it. Even though I can't imagine it."

The toothbrush is provided like mine with a name tag and stowed away in a side compartment of the trolley, which the mistress has packed for herself. Although it is full to the point of bursting, she can still close the zipper with some effort.

"Now we have everything," she says and tugs her ear thoughtfully. "But I should tell you something else. You do as I say!"

Oh! Of course, we know exactly what that means. But it is difficult, very difficult even, to do this in broad daylight. We look at each other with embarrassment - and both of us get a resounding slap in the face.

"Will you be good?" the mistress rebukes angrily.

Nothing else remains for me but to open my trousers and push them down together with the black bull-head thong I am wearing today. Then one after the other we dip our middle finger into the lubricant the mistress is giving us and gently stick it into each other's ass, whereby no panties under Sofie's dress makes it easy for me. And, of course, we have to move it, bend it dutifully, let it penetrate deeper, take it half out again, make us as hot as we can.

Smiling, the mistress watches us. "That's it." Her gaze becomes serious and she raises her index finger as a warning. "You will not disgrace me at the boot camp." She screws the lid on the black can and watches us attentively like a trainer watching her team just before the competition. "You won't have it easy, but having it easy can't be a goal either, because you won't get anywhere with it. Whatever happens, remember that it also has its good sides. In any case, I can only advise you to follow all the rules to the letter. I have never been there, but I know someone who is one of the organizers and he told me that there is no tolerance and forbearance there."

Somehow this doesn't sound good at all, but rather as if all fears were justified.

She smiles reassuringly. "You must not be despondent. After all, it's what you wanted. And so far, as far as I know, everyone has survived."

That's a great comfort. The only question is how they survived. I refrain from making it clear, as I won’t be heard anyway. We are allowed to take the finger out of us and have to suck it out of each other, not looking at each other, as there is reason enough to be ashamed of. Quickly, I then pull up my thong and pants as if I still had a good reputation to lose.

"Okay," says the mistress. "Here we go."

I have to take the trolley, Sofie the plastic bag with the shoes and the mistress carries the burden of responsibility. More or less in good spirits we boot down the stairs, luckily without meeting anyone. The mistress's little blue car is parked not far from the house on the roadside. My place is in the back seat, the mistress determines, and I squeeze myself in with difficulty. Sofie makes it a bit more comfortable for me by being nice enough to push the passenger seat a little bit forward. There are people who travel more comfortably, but probably not slaves who you take to a boot camp.

We drive on the four-lane arterial road past my fuel oil store to the motorway and from there in the southern direction, leave it however soon again and drive on a federal highway in western direction by flat countryside. After the first half of May had been quite cool, a few days ago it became early summer warm; the sun shines from a deep blue sky and it is almost thirty degrees. Fields with yellow-flowering rapeseed, still green wheat and young corn alternate and high church towers greet from small villages, which we carelessly pass by left and right. I have never been to this area, I don't know the names of the villages, I feel like I am abroad. Even the mistress does not know the way and is directed by Sofie, who uses her tablet PC as a navigation system. If we were to get lost hopelessly, that might not be the worst thing, I think, and at the same time, I secretly hope that we will find our destination, because I am a little curious about it.

The landscape becomes more hilly and somewhere in the middle of a forest we turn onto a small road, drive back into the open country, cross some settlements, pass a pasture with grazing cows.

"Stop," says Sofie, scratching her pretty head. "Somehow we're in the wrong place."

Without grumbling the mistress turns on a dirt road and drives back to the village we just passed through and which lies like it got extinct in the midday sun. Only an old mother drags herself bent down and supported by a stick on the narrow sidewalk.

The mistress stops next to her and Sofie lets the glass buzz down. "Excuse me... Could you tell us how to get to the manor?"

With surprisingly alert eyes, the little mother lurks into the car. "To camp? To the crazies? Where people are locked in cages, whipped and left to the dogs and horses to fornicate?"

What on earth is that old witch saying?

Probably fearing that the old woman could cause even more mischief, the mistress bends over to the window. "No man shall be left to the dogs and horses for fornication. These are ghost stories. Where is the manor house?"

The old woman points straight ahead. "There! And then left. I wouldn't go there." She turns away and gropes along quietly, babbling to herself.

The mistress lets the car roll and disturbed Sofie looks at her from the side. "That's not true, is it?"

"Of course not. The whole thing with the dogs and horses is completely out of the air. You can see what people in the country fantasize about."

But she does not deny that they have the cages and the whip, so I notice. Everything is probably not the result of the eccentric fantasy of the country bumpkins after all; we can only hope that the story with the dogs and horses does not turn out to be true after all. Doubts seem to gnaw into Sofie as well, at least she is now even quieter than before and seems even more apprehensive.

After the church in the centre of the village, the road makes an arc to the left and there is a small sign on a paling fence with the word "Camp" and an arrow pointing to the path that branches off to the left. At the last moment, the mistress turns off the flashlights, which is not important in this godforsaken area. We pass some old farms and just at the end of the village you can see again a sign with the inscription "Camp", nailed to a wooden post. The arrow points to the right into an indentation that would have fit an entire coach and which ends at a closed wrought-iron gate. In front of it, the mistress stops and gets out, presses the bell button and says something into an intercom system, watched by a camera that is mounted on top. My gaze wanders over the white wall that shields the property, about two meters high and quite escape-proof, and in any case, impossible to climb over without a ladder.

What the mistress says I can't hear, but in any case, it's the right thing to do because when she gets back behind the wheel, the two gate wings swing open silently in front of us. A paved path winds through a park, bordered on the right by a high dense hedge, and after two or three hundred metres we come to a paved car park between the two-storey castle-like main house and a flat outbuilding.

First, the lady gets out, hesitantly Sofie and I venture out of the car. Everything is quiet as a mouse, no one can be seen far and wide, neither humans nor animals. Abandoned is also the asphalt road that leads to the left into the park and to two other buildings with yellow plastered facades.

Two doors are opened at the same time, on the one side the mighty entrance portal of the main house, from which a handsome man comes out, and on the other side, the inconspicuous grey gate of the outbuilding, in which a brawny guy appears. The handsome man comes down the stone staircase. He is tall and slender, perhaps in his mid-thirties, has short black hair and a dark three-day beard. He approaches the mistress with a delighted smile. "Good to see you." They embrace each other like good friends and the look of his hazelnut brown eyes wanders to Sofie. "A beautiful child."

Also the other man has reached us, a short-haired bull-necked guy, who is around thirty and can hardly walk, a bodybuilder probably. He's dressed funny with black pants, white shirt, pocketful red vest - and in his belt, there's a whip with a short handle and a single short strap.

He looks at us with greenish-brown eyes and turns to the mistress. "This is Sofie and Valentine?"

She nods silently, standing close to the handsome man; one could almost have thought that she was seeking shelter with him.

"I'll take care of them," says the bull-neck and waves at us. "Come on!"

Disturbed Sofie's gaze flits to the mistress as if she wanted to ask if she really has to follow this coarse-looking person.

His gaze becomes unwilling. "We're not used to giving the same order twice."

Encouragingly, the mistress nods to us and we follow him to the door from which he came, losing sight of the mistress and the good-looking man. Arriving at the entrance, I turn back to her, see her walking up the stairs to the main house next to the good-looking one, and have the feeling that with her, my last refuge is lost. We enter an unadorned bright corridor that leads along the outer wall. The window front on the right-hand side points to the main house and on the left-hand side, some doors lead to somewhere where one should probably not be.

The bull-neck opens the first one on the left and steps aside to let us enter. Frightened, we remain standing on the threshold. The large room is divided by a balustrade, behind which two men and a woman sit on simple wooden chairs. Slaves, obviously! They have transparent negligees on. The men - a blue one, while the woman is wearing pink. Clumsy iron rings enclose her neck and the wrists and ankles. They can move their hands freely, but the feet of all three are tied together by a short chain. They look at us with big, frightened eyes, but immediately lower their gaze again.

On the other side of the balustrade are a woman and a man, both dressed as bizarrely as the bull-necked man. The woman is perhaps thirty years old, buxom, long white blond hair, gray-blue almond-shaped eyes, solarium-tanned full face. She sits behind a desk and has put her arm on the paper-covered plate. The bald, small, wiry-looking man standing next to her is about forty years old.

The bull-necked man shooed us further into the room and told the woman our names. While she's checking us off a list, he looks at us bossy. "Undress! Everything!"

Begging, Sofie's gaze flickers at me from the side as if she were hoping for help. From me, of all people. I could use some myself. And didn't she want it that way? It's thanks to her that we landed here. And the mistress, of course. And me too, since no one could have forced me to come here...

The gaze of the bald man becomes gloomy. "Now! Here one obeys and does not dawdle! This is your final warning!"

I'm afraid there is nothing that can be done. Helplessly, I pull the T-shirt over my head, slip out of my shoes, take off my socks and finally strip off my trousers with the thong, trying not to let him see it so that I am at least spared the shame of sneering comments. Sofie has it easier, at least in practical terms, because she only has to take off her dress to stand next to me stark naked. And the high heels, she's gotta have those too. Without my bull-head string being discovered, our things end up in bast baskets that are numbered, mine with the number fourteen, hers with the fifteen.

"M for her, L for him," the bald man says to the bull-necked man, and he brings us a piece of cloth, a blue one for me and a pink one for her. It's the negligees the others wear. We have to put them on and tie the thin ribbons at the waist and neck to each other to form a loop. At the front the transparent fabric reaches down to just above the crotch without hiding anything, the back and bottom remain uncovered. Clearly, these things are made for a woman. Sofie fills it out delightfully, on a man it seems extremely funny and probably only serves the purpose of showing him that he is no longer a man.

The bull-necked man puts iron rings around our neck and wrists and locks them with small padlocks. Although they look clunky like they came from the Middle Ages, they are equipped with soft foam rubber on the inside and a movable inner rail that allows them to be adjusted to the desired circumference. Each of them is equipped with two solid D-rings and puts a heavy load on the body. The neck ring is engraved with clearly visible blackened numbers, a fourteen for me and a fifteen for Sofie. To save the bull-neck from kneeling down in front of us, we have to put on each other's anklets and connect them with a short, thick chain, which is secured by the delicate locks like everything else but cannot be opened without a key.

The blonde presses an A4 sheet into our hands. "Read this and learn it by heart! - You can sit." Her voice sounds metallic and a bit shrill, so anything but pleasant.

Barefoot and forced by the anklet to take humiliatingly small steps, we walk through the opening in the middle of the balustrade to our fellow sufferers and settle down on free chairs near them.

Not expecting anything good, I take a look at the note, which is printed in sober-clear computer script. "Rules of conduct for the slave" is the headline and my anxiety grows with every word I read.

Every order is to be obeyed immediately without any objection.

The slaves are not allowed to communicate with each other, neither with words nor with looks or gestures.

Each slave is assigned a number which replaces his name.

The slaves speak only when spoken to. If a slave has a need or an emergency to report, she sinks to her knees before the master, sticks a finger in her cunt and waits until she gets permission to speak. A slave takes his cock in his hand and does otherwise the same.

If a slave is addressed or receives non-verbal attention from a master, she sticks a finger in her cunt and plays with herself until she is no longer noticed. A slave jerks his cock.

Every supervisor, every guest, as well as every master and mistress, are addressed by the slave in the second person plural. The overseers are called "my lord" or "my mistress", the guests are called "gracious lord" or "gracious lady", the lord or mistress is called as usual at home.

If a slave approaches her master, she immediately sinks down before him and licks his shoes. So does a male slave.

Touching food with the fingers is not permitted.

Heavens! This is at least as hair-raising as I feared, maybe even worse. And I'm supposed to memorize this? That cunt is a vulgar word and cock is a ridiculous one, but why we are forbidden to touch the food with our fingers is very strange, as we are all surely capable of eating with knife and fork. The rest I understand better than I could ever hope to.

Sofie also lets her hand sink, visibly dismayed by this unspeakable text, which demands the deepest submission.

A mobile phone rings and it is the bald man who digs it out of one of the many pockets of his vest. He listens briefly and tells the bull-necked man that the last two have arrived, whereupon he stomps out of the room without a word. The bald man is going through some list with the blonde and I dare a quick glance to the other slaves. Not too pretty is the woman who wears her copper-red hair parted in the middle and has a pointed, snub-nosed face with narrow lips. For a moment, her green-grey eyes look at me furtively, but her eyelids immediately drop. Her breasts are small, her figure is delicate and her pussy is clean-shaven. A twelve is engraved in her neck ring.

The eleven belongs to a massive man about forty years old with short brown hair. He is by far the oldest slave, his chest is dark hair, which makes the negligee on him look even more unsuitable, but his pubic hair is shaved off. As with the second man, who is about my age, so still quite young. He is slender, athletic, shaved all over his body, has red-blond hair that is stylishly cut and combed back, which under other circumstances would probably have given him a dynamic appearance. Both of them have the cock as tiny as mine, as if it wanted to hide itself; the fact that not even the sight of Sofie changes anything about it betrays the seriousness of the situation.

The door opens and the bull-neck brings in two women, a tall brunette and a buxom black-haired one, both so intimidated that they hardly dare raise their eyes. He tells his colleague their names, but so quickly and mumbling that I hardly understand them and immediately forget them. They obey the order of the bald man and peel themselves out of their dresses with lowered eyelids. A red suspender belt, black stockings and voluptuous breasts appear in the black-haired woman, while the brunette reveals panties and bra, something that is probably not often seen here, I suspect. Everything ends up in the bast baskets and they get a pink negligee to help them dress each other. Both are shaved in the lap, and if I see correctly, the brunette has the nipples of her hand-filling breasts and the labia painted red, just as the O had to do in the novel.

Disturbed, they stand still as the bull-neck puts the iron rings on them, with the brunette receiving the sixteen and the black-haired one the seventeen; apparently, here you are simply numbered in the order in which they arrive. They have to put on the anklets together with the short chain themselves, then they come over to us through the passage of the balustrade, barefoot and with small steps, which are obviously embarrassing for them too. Silently, they sit down on free chairs, anxious to keep as much distance from us as possible, and with eyes that get bigger and bigger, they read the note that the blonde has also put in their hands. Shaking her head, the brunette finally lets the paper sink and her look flickers over to us in consternation, as if she wanted to ask if this was really meant seriously.

"Slave girl sixteen!" The voice of the bald man cuts through the air like a whip.

It takes a moment for the brunette to realize that this means no one other than herself. Startled, she looks at him. "Yeah?"

He comes to our side with a scowl. "Get up!"

She reluctantly gets up from her chair. She is pretty with her honey-brown hair and the fringed Bob hairstyle, the dark complexion, the full face with red painted lips; her light brown eyes look fearfully at him. She is rightly afraid: before she knows what is happening to her, he has torn the lash from his belt and slaps it her back, then on her bottom and loins.

His voice mercilessly mixes with her whimpering. "Since you're new here, I'm gonna give you a list of all the things you did wrong: You made contact with the others with that look, you didn't stick your finger in your cunt when I addressed you, and you didn't address me. That's a lot of lapses in a very short time, don't you think?" He strikes again and snatches a choked scream from her.