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UNDER A MISTRESS’ SPELL

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Educational theory

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.

Educational theory

Blissful submission. I cower on my knees and forearms before Ilona as if I were with a real mistress, never imagining that this dream could one day come true. Thoroughly, I lick the narrow straps of her cream-colored sandals and it cannot be avoided that my tongue touches her peachy soft skin. Which, unlike Gudrun, fortunately, doesn't seem to bother her.

Gently, she lets the leather clap of the crop caress the reddish parquet floor and like a breath of wind her voice floats down to me: "You made me wait a long time."

I couldn't know that she was expecting me and was even willing to play the mistress for me. But I do not express my thoughts, because this is not the right moment to discuss. I would rather give the answer in another way: I try to kiss her red painted toenails, hear no objection and lick them lovingly, trying to suck them into my mouth, but I can't because they are too tight and unfortunately don't meet me halfway. Doubts mingle with my bliss and deep shame. I am really about to kiss the feet of the always so well-behaved Ilona? And she just lets happen what was so completely unthinkable for so long? Where does this change of heart come from? Does she love me so much that she devotes herself to fulfilling my deepest longing, or does she do it not out of charity at all, but because she realizes how attractive playing the mistress can be?

Again, I hear her voice that now suddenly sounds commanding: "I have decided to be strict with you, because I think you need it. I will explain to you little by little what I am asking of you. And I expect you to obey my instructions to the letter."

Oh! Those are exciting words. Seems like she has learned a lot from the experience with her online subs. I switch to her left foot, which must not be left out, and let my tongue circle around the gold-glimmering pencil-thin heel. I have never seen her on such breakneck high heels before.

Her voice now sounds dreamy: "To be greeted in this way is even more beautiful than I thought. That's how you'll do it from now on!"

Yes, of course. Just as I had to or was allowed to do with Gudrun. To hear such an instruction gives me a warm and pleasant tingling sensation. While licking her wonderful toes I get a strange thought: If I would turn my head now and look up, I could look under her short blue skirt. Which I won't, because that's just not allowed.

The feet are moving away from my tongue, but I’m still far from having enough of them and would love to caress them even longer. But she doesn’t allow that. I must rise, stand before Ilona, I am about half a head taller than she is. Inevitably, my gaze is drawn to the buxom breasts that stand out promisingly under her thin white top. I also catch a glimpse of her wheat-blonde hair, her chubby-cheeked face with full lips and her ultramarine blue clear eyes. She is really very beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than Gudrun and at least as pretty as Sofie; to have such an attractive woman as a mistress is a dream.

Forbearingly she smiles at me. "I'm glad you like me. But it is not for an obedient slave to stare at his mistress so lustfully. She's not his object of desire."

Oh. Of course not. With difficulty, I tear the look away from her bosom and quietly disappointed I see her put the crop on the sofa as if it was no longer needed. What was I hoping for? What, a beating? Oh, no. I'm not a masochist. I don't crave pain. But it should have been a small educational measure...

But I am not being trained, at least not this afternoon, which we spend together as partners on an equal footing. Also in the evening there is no training, but a party, which was already announced to me by Ilona, so I brought dark trousers in my travel bag and a white shirt, which is, unfortunately, a little wrinkled. Ilona's critical gaze makes me wince. I have nothing to do with ironing and the shirt can be smoothed halfway by hand. I'm fine. Add to that the blue jacket I came in and it's enough elegance. I don't need a tie because the host, Mr. Peschke, is not bourgeois, as Ilona explains to me. Good, then a few wrinkles in my shirt shouldn't bother him. But who is this Mr. Peschke?

This is Ilona's boss, I learn, the founder and owner of the successful software company she works for. Twice a year, he gives a party for particularly esteemed employees; to be invited to it is, therefore, an honour and distinction.

Oh, is Ilona about to make a career? Which can’t be said of me. "But I'm not invited," I say considerately.

Magnanimously, she waves it off. "It doesn't matter. You're a part of it with me. That'll do."

That's really enough, I think, and is actually more than I could have expected, because belonging somewhere had been completely unimaginable in winter. While she is getting ready in the bathroom, I watch a bit of television and when she appears again, I stare at her appreciatively. She looks good in her cocktail dress, it is dark pink and short, has a heart-shaped neckline, thin straps attached in the middle and under the chest a border of rhinestones and pearls. Incorporated cups replace the bra that nobody misses. On top of it comes a thin white blazer. On her feet, she wears the cream-coloured sandals, which she, like the other things, bought especially for the party, so not for my greeting, as I naively thought.

Ilona’s boss lives in the city, and since she has never been to his house, the navigation system has to lead us to him. It leads us to the noble quarter at the river and there to a villa in the Bauhaus style, flat roof, dark clinkered smooth facade with high, narrow windows, not very inviting, also not very beautiful, but probably expensive. The parking spaces between the house and the open wrought-iron entrance gate are completely occupied and at the edge of the secluded street, there are a lot of cars, mostly heavy limousines, next to which Ilona's small car looks rather puny.

In front of the grey slate entrance door are two dressed up men, security guards, who check Ilona's invitation, let her assure them that I am her companion, and politely let us inside. We enter a spacious noble hallway, in which metal stairs lead up and down in a gentle curve. To the left, through an open double-leaf glass door, you enter a huge living room with a dark slate floor and shiny light grey metal walls. One of these walls is half occupied by a huge metal clock, which can only be discovered at second glance. There are already a lot of guests, the women wrapped in more or less revealing evening dresses, while the men wear suits or tuxedos, many without ties, as the boss is not bourgeois.

Classical music rushes through the room, a light symphony with lovely notes, Mozart probably. It emanates from a high-end system I have never seen before. The loudspeaker boxes are ceiling-high columns, equipped with three red funnels, the largest of which is about one meter in diameter and the smallest, about the size of a palm, is framed by a reddish shimmering diamond. On a rack of slates, supported by metal columns as thick as an upper arm, are tube amplifiers with preamp and power amplifier, and above them a flashing chrome turntable, which should weigh about half a ton. Its two tons rest in the holder, the music comes from a huge CD player, which looks a bit old-fashioned but noble with a brown casing and beige front; the whole thing should have the value of a single-family house. The sound is clear and airy, but not spectacular, but you can't expect too much. Only a few CDs are in a metal phallus-shaped holder and a DJ is nowhere to be found, one could almost have thought that the enthusiasm for music would be limited here.

With a gallant smile, a man about forty years old approaches Ilona and greets her with a little hug, of course, as usual. This other way of greeting is reserved for me alone. It's the host, her boss, a smart, athletic, attractive guy, dark hair, brown eyes and striking face with slightly narrow lips. Shortly and politely, he also shakes my hand, then exchanges a few charming words with Ilona, is not someone I could imagine as a friend, which is just as true for almost every one of his guests.

No, I'm not comfortable in this circle here. But Ilona is. She chats and jokes with many people, both men and women, seems to know most of them, is very good at conversation anyway. But not so much in the manner of the mistress. There is no sign of this with her, with two exceptions: I will be driving home, she tells me friendly, which means that I am not allowed to drink alcohol. And she can sip the champagne without worrying, I have to get it for her from the bar, which is set up in the dining room at the cold buffet. It consists of a counter with a brightly polished plate and behind it, a shelf filled with bottles of all kinds. Several times in the course of the evening I show up at the bartender to get supplies for my mistress, which, of course, I do not say. I don't exchange a word with the attractive looking guy who wears a red livery and has hedgehog-like protruding dark hair.

We're gonna be at this party for an eternity. This first evening as Ilona’s sub I imagined differently. So I am not in the best of moods when she is finally ready to leave. The room has become empty noticeably, the room has fallen silent and the host, who was initially so put together, now looks a bit battered, as if he had poured too much of his champagne behind the non-existent bandage. With a slightly crooked grin, he wishes Ilona a good night with a slightly naughty grin. High-class manners are different, but the good man makes his money with software, not with good manners or culture.

Around two o'clock in the night, we come home and my fear becomes true: I am condemned to cuddle.Ilona lies naked next to me in bed, her back turned to me, and relentlessly she pushes my hand, which wants to slide between her legs, away.

Disappointed, I stroke her hair. "If I had a sub, I'd be pretty strict with her and work consistently on her education."

Ilona sounds tired and a bit shrewd, but her thinking still works quite well: "But you don't have a sub that you can deal with strictly. You're the sub being trained."

"Oh, and why didn't I notice?"

"Because you're a man, and men are sometimes a little slow on education. But go to sleep. It's getting late."

In terms of condescension and determination, she actually resembles a real mistress at this moment, which she will probably never be, whether she tries or not. She is too kind, too well-behaved, too decent to fulfill my desires. A replacement for Gudrun, my real, but unfortunately past mistress, does not exist for me. These are not pleasant thoughts but they accompany me to sleep.

Breakfast is served around noon on Ilona's small balcony overlooking the deserted street of the quiet residential area and the adjacent houses with their well-kept gardens. On Sundays there is nothing going on here, but you can see a lot of greenery.

Ilona wears her long, colourful house dress and the flat white sandals she always wears at home when she is not being greeted. She doesn't wear socks or stockings, she doesn’t need to, because it is pleasantly warm. She looks a little dishevelled as if she had had a wild night, which unfortunately is not true. Or is she hungover? My worried question makes her turn away. It wasn't that bad. While I take a sip of coffee, I think about how nice it could have been with her tonight and how exciting it would have been to experience her at least a little bit like a mistress.

She sits opposite me at the white-painted round tin table and blinks into the grey-covered sky, from which it will probably rain soon. "I would never have thought that the Peschke lived in such luxury," she said, more to herself than to me. "This stereo is awesome." A bit ornate, I think, she spreads cherry jam on a slice of bread, cuts it in the middle and bites off a piece.