Pyrmont, 18 July

Hours passed. I ate and drank some of the water and bread, wrote a few letters and reread the testimony lying beside the bed. For me, the game between her husband and his lady was nothing more than a window to the past. My nights with Anna in Paris. Old wounds, but not too painful anymore. Milena slept restlessly, tossing and turning under the covers until she woke up with a start in the morning. I quietly put the book aside and looked at her. The wild confusion of the dream that awoke her gave way to icy calm.

“If you wanted to ruin my life, you have succeeded. Congratulations,” she said hoarsely.

I leaned forward and offered her a cup of water. “That was my intention,” I said. “Here, have a drink. You’ll be thirsty.”

Evading my gaze, she sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her, and took the cup. “I hate you,” she whispered, and took a sip.

I nodded with a sigh. “I know.”

“And you obviously hate me, or you wouldn’t have done this to me.” Her gaze fell on me. “Why? What did I ever do to you?” Her voice was unsteady, in contrast to the unflinching frozen mask of her face. Under her icy exterior, she wanted to be consoled. I couldn’t, not as long as she regarded me as the enemy. I could only show compassion when she broke the ice.

“I don’t hate you,” I said, cool and level, “but I have little respect for this image you desperately try to maintain. After all, it’s as real as your late great-uncle.”

She did not give in. Demonstratively, she let go of the blanket, striking a seductive pose, completely at odds with the contempt in her eyes. It would have made a beautiful painting.

“Being a slut and a whore,” she asked, “is that what you want me to be?”

“Among other things,” I said. “A slut you already are. Whether you want to capitalise on it, I leave to you.”

The pose disappeared. She just sat, no longer bothered by her nudity. I involuntarily thought of Courbet’s painting. She looked at her wrists. The marks of the rope had faded. 

“The truth, finally,” she said and dropped her hands in her lap.

“I never lied to you,” I said. “You lied to me, but I don’t blame you.”

“Not true. I’ve always been honest with you.” She avoided my gaze.

“You haven’t been honest,” I said. “Not with me, and certainly not with yourself.”

“Drivel. Empty words.” It sounded gruff, but she still didn’t dare look at me. “I am tired of your games.”

Fleeing would not help her, nor did I allow her to. “Then let’s talk about your games instead,” I said.

She no longer avoided me and looked at me calmly. “I don’t play games and I certainly don’t play with people.”

“Oh, no?” I kept silent until she averted her eyes again. Time for the final blow. “Very well then,” I said. “The Duke Von Anhalt Bernburg houses a brothel on his estate where your husband cheats on you with another. In your circles, this is not unusual and sometimes even welcome. There are plenty of wives who prefer to occupy themselves with running a home, fine arts, charity, their secret liaisons and raising heirs.”

She looked up at me, glowering. “That’s not me.”

“No, on the contrary,” I agreed, “with all the evidence of his infidelity, you don’t confront him, but me, the owner of the brothel. I hear the accusation, deny nothing, but I admit nothing either. I only propose that, in exchange for answers to your questions, you submit yourself to me for a month. What do you do? Do you laugh at me? Are you deeply offended by my proposal? Do you threaten to reveal my secrets? Or are you finally confronting your husband about his infidelity?” I let the question linger, but there was no rebuttal. Relentlessly, I continued. “No. Not you. You accept my proposal. A man with a questionable reputation, who may even be dangerous. Who demands you put your fate in his hands.”

She pulled the blanket tight around herself again, evading my glare. It could not hide her blushes. Her icy calm gave way to brooding restlessness. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I said yes.”

“You do know. Or rather, you think you do.”

I waited for her response, which did not come. She just stared in the distance.

“Look at me!” I commanded her harshly.

She hesitantly focussed on me with big frightened eyes, her breathing fast and shallow, unable to put her side of the story into words.

“You married your husband. An arranged marriage, sure, but you really love him, and he loves you, you are certain. Until little hints to the contrary appear. Long trips abroad, bills that don’t add up, gossip that gets to you through the grapevine, and finally evidence you no longer can ignore. You are living a lie. Your love turns to deep loathing and hatred. You despise him, but also despise yourself. How could you be so stupid, so gullible? You want revenge. For you, no lover and pretending nothing is wrong until death do you part. You are looking for an affair to hurt and humiliate him. Make him feel what he has lost besides your trust. You find me, the perfect instrument for your revenge. Someone high on the social ladder with a questionable reputation in this area. Your honour, your innocence, you don’t care anymore. It was nothing more than a house of cards built on quicksand anyway.”

She nodded slowly and remained silent for a long time. She had a lot to deal with. Maybe I missed some details, but by and large, the story was true. I picked up my book and pretended to continue reading. The text could just as well have been Chinese; its letters swam before my eyes. The suspense was killing me.

“All right, you got me. I lied to you.” Whispering, she admitted it. “But I’m not a slut.”

“You can’t be a slut, you mean,” I said, without looking up from the book, “You won’t allow it, you know your husband won’t, and none of the circles you move in ever will.”

“But you don’t mind, of course.”

She was right, but for the wrong reasons. I looked up and slammed the book shut. The slap made her flinch, but she continued to look at me with disdain.

“A slut,” I said, and tasted the word in my mouth. “Someone who has the courage to accept her desires and give in to them. Someone who doesn’t allow herself to be stifled by social restrictions, but pursues her own path. Someone who doesn’t hide passions and desires, but lives life to the fullest. As long as she respects the freedom and happiness of others, I can only admire her. Unfortunately, society perceives it as a threat when women behave like this, so the powers that be torture, murder and rape them. Where civilisation made that kind of spectacle unpalatable, laws and words are used to persecute, condemn and banish them. Branding them as sluts. So it takes courage to be a slut, and yes, I hope you dare to be that brave.”

“So I have to lower myself to your level. And that of my husband. Who apparently had no problem abusing one of the sluts you’re so proud of.” The words were combative, but she dropped her head in defeat.

I put the book away and risked her ire by sitting next to her on the bed. Besides a shy glance, she didn’t react.

“We all have our own predilections. It is useless to be ashamed of them. You either give in to them or you don’t,” I said and put an arm around her. “Whatever you choose, as long as you are honest with yourself, I won’t admire you any less for it.”

Her restless fingers played with the blanket she had wrapped around herself. “Did you do that to her too?” she finally asked. It took me a moment to realise she meant her husband’s favourite. The question was harder to answer than she could conceive.

“I did, several times,” I said, “It’s a game, Milena. Even though I played her lord and master, she was in control. One word from her and it was over. I didn’t hear that word last night.”

Lost in thought, she stared at the empty canvas before us. Her gaze went to the doors, one open, the other still locked. Finally, she turned to me.

“What do you expect from me now? Am I to surrender so you can fuck and humiliate me? As punishment for lying to you?” She said it in one breath, before she could think about it. Pride glimmered in her eyes that she summoned the audacity to pose the question like that. I had trouble suppressing a smile. Because of her language, but also because she shattered the false image of herself with her questions. Offering me an excuse to fulfil her desires. After all this, she had to be mentally exhausted and unable to resist the urges her body dictated. I put my hands on her shoulders. She blinked, drawing a quick, agitated breath. She feared the consequences of her audacity. I would lie if I said I wasn’t tempted, but one misstep on my part could destroy everything I constructed so carefully.

“Milena, if it is punishment you crave, I will give it to you gladly,” I said, and meant it. I ached to use her body and submit her to mindless ecstasy, to have her howling with pain and pleasure. She must have seen it in my eyes. Her whole body tensed like a string.

“But this is not the time to fulfil these desires,” I said, taking her hand and pressing it between her trembling legs. She squeezed her eyes shut with bated breath.

“If you feel excited anticipation here, you are ready. Not while you feel a knot full of icy fear here,” I said and slid her hand up below her breasts. I let go of her hand. She relaxed, gazing at me as if in a trance.

“Besides, you haven’t shown me your desires yet. It is time to carry out the task I have given you. When you've finished the painting, we’ll meet again. You still have three days.” I stood up, helping her to rise from the bed. The blanket slid to the floor, but she didn’t care. She was ready to create her first assignment.

You see through me, punish me, manipulate me. Yet I am grateful you do. You break down barriers that I have imposed on myself. The artists who preceded me are certainly not the least. No matter how ashamed I am of the images in my head, I must paint them. It’s more important to me now than anything else. I know you will not condemn me over the depravity of the resulting picture. I can proceed again.

Pyrmont, 21 July

For the next few days, I visited Milena when she slept and left her water, bread, and a clean dress. I didn’t want to distract her. She always left the easel with the canvas facing the wall. Not only out of shame, I think; also because she wanted to reveal the finished painting. At times, she went outside for a break. Short ones, the work took precedence. As it did for me, organising ongoing investments and managing the estate, but often enough, my thoughts were with her. How far should I accompany Milena on her exploration of dark desires? Was it worth all the risks? Letting her paint for the rest of the month while she learnt to accept her husband’s transgressions was by far the most sensible and safe choice. But my daydreams, filled with her rope-entwined body and passion-filled kisses, thought otherwise.

On the morning of the eighth day, I found her sleeping. The easel stood in the middle of the room, covered by a sheet. I sat down in the armchair and read some reports. When she woke up, she looked at me, but remained silent and said nothing. I put the reports aside, peeled an apple and offered her a piece. She sat up and took it. Chewing, she stared into the distance. In the end, I could not contain my curiosity.

“And?” I asked.

“It’s finished.”

“Can I see it?”

She blinked her eyes, as if noticing me for the first time. She hadn’t expected that question. “Do I have a choice?”

I nodded. “The assignment was to create a work that shows your darkest desires. Whether you want to share them with me is up to you.”

“What about your collection?”

I gestured at the veiled painting. “Some of them were only seen by their creator.”

“Then what’s the point of the work?”

Eating another piece of apple, I gazed at the covered canvas. “For me, it is a test. Can I resist my yearning to see the work, or will I break my promise to the maker?” I turned to her. “For the artist, it does what it did for you.”

“Have you always kept your word?”

“No, not always,” I said. “After the creator’s demise, it is hard to keep it.” I stood and walked over to her bedside.

She looked up at me. “It’s my best work yet.”

“No doubt it is.” I cut another chunk of the apple and offered it. “You want to show it to me?”

“Yes... No.” Hesitantly, she accepted the slice and gazed at her work, chewing on her piece of apple. This choice came as a surprise. “I doubt it, actually.”

“Your doubt makes it good enough for the collection. You already know that. It’s the next assignment that makes you nervous, because I will know your dark desires.”

“That too, yes,” she said and faced me with a mischievous smile.  “Maybe I want to put your resolve to the test.”

I shook my head. “What you’re really afraid of is giving in to your desires. Or mine.”

She remained silent. I tossed the apple core in the wastebasket, sat next to her on the bed and waited until she could put her thoughts and questions into words. It was her turn, not mine.

“Why me?” she finally asked and faced me. “I mean, I understand what you believe in, the philosophy you adhere to. But that’s all theory, impersonal. Why are you doing this for me? You barely know me.”

That question was easy to answer. “You already know this. I like what I see in you. You are beautiful, clever, brave and confident. You have talents I can put to good use if you dare to give them free rein. That wasn’t possible as long as you remained a prisoner of propriety’s golden cage. I recognised it and decided to find the key.”

“Because of your sister.”

There was little point in denying it. “Yes, in some ways, your situation is similar.”

She frowned. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Then why should I trust you with my secrets?” she asked. “After everything you did to her.”

Now she finished the painting, I needed to convince her she could trust me with her next step. Only the truth would suffice. “I could tell you now that you are not my half-sister, the circumstances are different, and I am a changed person with different motivations and insights. However, the hard truth is that you can’t trust anyone, not even yourself. You can only hope that someone doesn’t betray your trust when you need it. It keeps life exciting.”

“Not for your sister.”

I cursed myself for that last remark. “That’s true. I can’t redeem myself for what I did to her. It will always stand between Anna and me.”

“Do you love your sister? Half-sister?” She glowered as her mouth became a stern, thin line. Jealousy?

“Yes, but not in the way you imply. We pursue the same goals.”

“I am one of those goals?”

I leaned back on the bed. Grey clouds drifted overhead above the glass ceiling of the cell. “You’re not a goal. Our goal is to celebrate what life offers, no matter how strange or dark it may be, according to others. I think you’re one of the few capable to do so.”

“With you as my tutor, of course,” she said.

I ignored her derision and looked at her. “Whether that role suits me, you know better than me. I haven’t seen the canvas yet.”

She scowled at me. “It has nothing to do with your own lust? Cravings you want to share with me?”

With a sigh, I sat up. “Of course it does. I’m no saint. But if that was my goal, it would already have happened while the Berlin elite relished in the resulting scandalous gossip.”

She nodded and turned her gaze back to the canvas, pondering. “I’m scared.”

“Rightly so. It won’t get any easier, but I’ll promise you one thing. Every step you take will be a step of your own choosing. When you bear the consequences of your choices, trust me to be at your side. Just as I trust you to be who you are, without pretence.”

She stood and looked down at me. I kept her gaze as she put her hands on my shoulders, leaned forward, and gently kissed my lips. Not a kiss that demanded an answer; she walked to the frame and revealed the canvas.

It was an asset to my collection, far beyond my expectations. Words can describe it, but do no justice to the feelings it evoked in me. Its limited colour palette consisted mainly of black and white. A realistic image, almost tangible. In the foreground, a woman bowing towards me in harsh bright light, naked. Remnants of her beautiful clothing linger, torn like rags around her legs. She could barely stand, hanging in strappado, her wrists tied with ropes that pulled her arms up behind her, left and right into the darkness. Her body shone with sweat. Red whip marks contrasted with her white skin. Traces of tears ran down her cheeks, smeared with remnants of a once sophisticated toilet and partially covered by a detached mask. Long, loose hair framed her face. Her mouth was open wide, set in a scream of lust or pain, while drool was dripping from her chin. She looked straight at me, her eyes shining with pride. Hanging from the ropes, she pushed her rear against the man behind her. He was naked as well, but in silhouette because of the light behind him. Blurred with movement, he pushed his hips forward, straining every muscle, one hand like a claw in her buttocks, the other a fist tangled in the woman’s hair, forcing her to look at me. His face was unrecognisable. He looked up, mouth open to let out his last breath in ecstasy. Two men crouched in the shadows on either side of the pair. Their dark, blurred hands touched one of her breasts and her crotch, while they kept the woman’s legs spread at her ankles. The source of the bright light, a seraph, hovered behind the couple. Serene and foreboding, it watched the pair in front, its face the spitting image of the woman in the foreground. An angel of vengeance, because with a white-hot spear she pierced the hearts of both lovers and bound them together.

It completely overwhelmed me. Despite the angel’s spear, I wanted to be the man in the picture. The confidence she had in me by sharing those desires shocked me as well. Trust I doubted I deserved or was worthy of. I tried to find words but couldn’t. They were redundant. I tore myself away from the woman on the canvas to focus on the same woman beside the painting. Equally proud and confrontational, and just as vulnerable and naked, despite her simple dress. “And?”

I found words. Stammering. “It’s intense. It’s beautiful.” Ridiculous, couldn’t I think of anything better? “I’m deeply impressed, more than I dared to hope.”

The tension broke, and I answered her proud smile with my own. “You didn’t sign it.”

She glanced at the painting. “I thought it unnecessary. You’re the only one who gets to see it.”

“I hope you’ll change your mind, but it’s up to you.” Ready for the next step, I got up from the bed and approached her. I had no room for doubt, had to focus. Her breathing was fast and nervous, despite her calm gaze. Keeping my eyes locked on hers, my tension returned as I held my hand open, and she laid hers in mine with the hint of a smile. I pressed it against her belly, just below her breasts. Her breathing became heavy, as did mine. The warmth of her skin radiated through her dress and heated me. Slowly, she shook no and directed our hands downward to her abdomen. I couldn’t look away and she didn’t, despite the growing excitement. Her face became blurred, her eyes dark. I nodded, my cock and balls growing heavy in my trousers. Hoarsely, I issued her my last instructions. “Good. You’re free for the rest of the morning. I’ll expect you in the dining hall at lunchtime. There you will get your next assignment. You may dress as you see fit.” I kissed her hand and let it go, carefully covered the painting and took it with me.

After seeing how you react to my painting, I want more. I want to turn dreams and desires into actions. It frightens me, but it is also exhilarating and liberating. I am grateful for what you have enabled me to do. I want to give you what you crave. Despite all your fancy posturing in your role of patron, you cannot hide the fact that you share my desires.

She arrived for lunch and closed the door behind her. Then she turned to face me and rendered me speechless. Again. She had gone to the guesthouse to change. Her face wore a seductive toilet juxtaposing her defiant gaze. She put her hair up with a few simple clips and the dress she chose was the one lying in tatters in the painting. A significant contrast to my simple black garb. She snickered at my unintelligible wrestling with the right words. “The second time today I have caught you with a foot in your mouth.”

I nodded, recollected myself, and stood up to offer her a chair. “A price I’m happy to pay when you spring surprises like these.” I said, and added more command to my voice: “Sit down.” She did as told, lowering her gaze in submission. Or did she just discover the delicacies on the table? I poured wine and pointed at the food. “Or do you prefer water and bread?”

She threw me a playful smile. “Tempting, but not today. I’m starving,” she said, putting her money where her mouth was, scooping her plate full of morsels and eating with relish.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

She kept eating her lunch while she chewed at the question, taking her time to clear her mouth. “Strange, free, light-headed.” She hesitated. “Also tense, but no annoying anxiety.”

Less tense than me, apparently, for the pit in my stomach was terribly annoying and limited my lunch to a sip of wine. “Excitement for the next assignment.”

“That too, yes. Actually, I don’t quite understand what you mean by giving me the choice if I...” Again she hesitated for a moment, searching for words with a slight blush. “Well, would follow my desires.”

“Because there is little for you to choose if you do.”

She blushed a deeper red, but her gaze didn’t stray. “Yes.”

The pit in my stomach fell straight to my groin with a wave of lust. Her outfit wasn’t meant to taunt me. She still wanted to exchange her dark fantasies for reality. More importantly, she wanted me to join her. I would, but not before some basic ground rules.

“He was the master, but she was the boss, remember?”

Her face tightened at the memory of her husband and his lady. “Yes.”

“Through your work and our conversations, I have an idea of what you want. Need,” I said, “but it’s still an estimate. Sometimes I will make mistakes. With a word or a phrase, you can tell me. Then I will pause or stop whatever is going on. I decide what happens to you, as long as you let me. If I am not sure whether I am on the right track, I’ll give you the opportunity to choose a direction. If you travel this path, it’s for yourself and no one else.”

She nodded. “What is the assignment?”

“Actually, no different from what it already was. If you’ve eaten enough, you’ll do what I tell you for the rest of the afternoon, without objection. Otherwise, you remain silent unless I say so. If you don’t, I’ll punish you.”

She almost choked on her wine. “So, letting you boss me around like a slave all afternoon? Is this about my desires or yours?” Her fierce gaze made me hesitate for a moment. These were her fear and shame talking. I stayed as level as possible and continued on my chosen path. “Both. It’s the next assignment, not the last.”

“If I refuse? Decide not to do it after all?”

“If you can’t handle it, you say so. You’ve always had that choice.”

“With a word? Or a phrase?”

I nodded. “In your case, both. The word of grace is ‘bastard’. If you say that, I’ll pause this game until you’ve come to your senses again. If you want the game to stop, you say, ‘I can’t do this’.”

The word of grace evoked a cautious smile, which disappeared into the line her lips drew at hearing the stop phrase. “I don’t think you need to worry about misjudging me. You know me far too well.”

“I appreciate your pride and intelligence. Of course, I hope to know you well enough to assist you when you’re ready.”

She nodded, focused on her food again with little appetite. In silence, we played with the last remnants of our lunch. I mulled over my preparations for this afternoon. Everything was in place. The next step was hers to take.

“Very well. I’m done eating,” she said. 

“So am I. Clear the table,” I said, kind but firm.

Her widening eyes searched mine. Not the assignment she expected. “Excuse me?”

Which was not the response I wanted from her, so I answered her rhetorical question with a measure of dourness. “You obviously didn’t hear me. I said, ‘Clear the table.’” The game had begun.

She hesitated. Should she quit or continue? She decided on the latter and looked at me with a dangerously raised eyebrow. Rising from her chair, she grabbed the tablecloth with both hands. With a powerful jerk and a lot of violence, she obeyed my order. A few pieces of the tableware survived. The rest lay in shards on the floor. I didn’t move a muscle, even though I could barely contain my smile. After she swept the last remnants of lunch from the table, she wiped her hands and faced me, her eyes glinting with mischief at a job well done. I pointed to her chair.

“Sit,” I said sharply.

Her smile faded as she sat down, upright and proper, the way she had undoubtedly been taught as a child. Her gaze fixed on the table. She knew she was in trouble, but I hadn’t yet decided what kind of trouble. Best stick to my plans for now. I slid a square box into her field of vision, wrapped in black lacquered paper. “This box contains a pouch with a gift and a task,” I said. “When you open the pouch, the gift is yours, but you’ll have to carry out the task.” I stood up, walked around the table and kissed her full on the mouth. She allowed it, too staggered to react. I took a small hourglass from my pocket and placed it next to the box. “When the sand runs out, you’ve made your choice.” I left the dining room, locking the door behind me.

With a heavy click, the dining-room door locks behind you. I only hear it, hypnotised by the hourglass and the box you left on the table. Your lips glow on mine. Every time I regain control of the situation, you disrupt me. The most frustrating thing is that you manage it with my own feelings. Now I sit here and stare at the black box and jitters run through my body. I have already decided to take the next step and share your bed. I wear this dress for a reason and it had not escaped your notice.

The reasons for my adultery changed and the stakes seem so much higher now. I try to reassure myself. What is the worst that can happen? The portrayal of my desires in the painting; what did you see in it? What if you are a madman who wants to torture and kill me? I laugh at myself. It’s all very well to use mind games, but you have to practise the right strategy at the right time. It’s not like you determine and I have to follow. You will guide my first steps in this erotic game. I just have to trust you, and in this domain, I do. Breathing exercises then: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I calm down a bit; the fear subsides and my eye falls on the hourglass again. Time passes quickly. Of course I open the box and do what it says. As if I wouldn’t dare. Immediately, a wave of uncontrollable excitement follows. The warm knot in my lower abdomen tightens.

I open the box with trembling fingers and take out the bag, black satin, tied with a leather lace, nothing else. Another choice. I could peek and refuse. It is beneath me. I won’t look, but I try to sense the outline. It is egg-shaped with a short tapering stem ending in a round, flat disc. The object my husband used on his whore. It seems different, larger, as if you attached something to it. Uncertainty strikes. I must know (I already know, but I must know). I have to open it; want to show you I dare. “Come on, Milena, you know that you’re going to do it anyway. Just open the bag,” I admonish myself and take the dreaded object from the bag. Relief. The large object turns out to be two smaller ones. A bottle of oil and a white-gold plug that looks like a small spinning top. Not too bad at all, then. The plug looks like a piece of jewellery, gilded and decorated with a cut crystal at the flat end. A long, black silk ribbon is tied to it with a card. ‘Wear me,’ it says. Of course, I expected nothing else. Did you guess that yearning through my painting? Did you notice how I reacted when my husband removed a similar object from his lady before taking her there? Or does it reveal your own desires? No more doubts. The room grows slightly darker when I close the curtains and turn on the gaslight. I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, but nobody else needs to enjoy it. I spread some oil on the plug and, lifting my dress, I push it against the opening which is only meant as an exit. I can’t get it in right away, only when I relax concentrating on my breathing does it slide in. After the thickest part, it’s not so bad and I don’t really notice it. It’s more the idea of it. Nervously, I look at my rear in a large wall mirror. Unless I spread my buttocks, no one can see the jewellery. But I see the ring on my finger. Again I hesitate. Should I continue with this? Now that I acknowledge my urges and they’re similar to my husband’s, what reason is there to cheat on him? You will let me go if I ask you to. You have said it several times and you are someone who stands by what he promises. Unlike my husband. I remove the ring and put it away. Accepting my fantasies is another thing than acting on them. I could use some experience without disastrous consequences for my reputation. Walking feels somewhat strange, but not unpleasant. My eye falls on the hourglass where the last grains drop and I stand next to the table, waiting for your return.

The door unlocks, and you enter. I show you the ribbon with the card, let it whirl to the floor, and smile seductively. At least, that’s the intention, but my heart is in my throat and I’m trembling on my legs. You answer my smile with yours and stride towards me with confidence. You want me. Petrified, I stand before you as you gently remove my hair clips, one by one. Then you grab my hair, firm but not painful. This does something to me, something I cannot quite fathom. I’m at peace with what’s coming. You kiss me, full of passion but also cautiously probing. I answer your kiss, longing to feel instead of thinking. I close my eyes. Taste your tongue, your lips. Then you break off the kiss, step back, and ask me to take off my dress. It sounds soft and friendly, but I perceive it as an order. I want to do what you do to me, to throw you off balance. Discarding my corset, I start to undo laces and buttons one by one, trying to seduce you by slowly revealing my body. I let my dress slide down my arms, revealing my breasts. The loose fabric slips further down my legs and I kick the dress away over the floor. Your eyes betray you, as does your breathing. You have a warm knot in your stomach as well, I’m sure. Knowing this makes me stronger, more confident too. I look at you defiantly and enjoy the effect I have on you. Your eyes wander over my body and your gaze tells me you enjoy what I offer. My underwear has to go as well. What I already expected when I carefully selected my lingerie, delaying the ultimate revelation. The end result is the same. Naked, dressed only in stockings and short lace-up boots, I stand before you.

You seize control again. You ask me to bend over the table and show how the jewel suits me. Again it sounds friendly, again it is an order and again you throw me off balance. Yes, I expected this, but now it’s actually happening? Then I just do it, turn around and bow. The table’s cool hardwood presses against my breasts and I spread my buttocks. I blush, not just in my face, but all over my body. Suddenly, I am very shy. I am literally lying here, open and naked, in front of you. I see nothing while you see everything. It excites and unsettles me at the same time.

Do you read my thoughts? Your voice is hoarse when you say I’m beautiful and you’re impressed with my audacity. I am proud of myself. Proud because I dare to do this and it doesn’t leave you indifferent. Your fingers tangle in my hair to grab it. “What an effort for you to let go,” you say. I smile. As unfamiliar as we are, you see right through me again and again. It breaks the tension a little; it’s nice being able to smile. Then your hands caress my skin. I close my eyes, focus all my attention on my body. My way to clear my head, which is always difficult for me to achieve. Relinquishing control little by little, my desire grows.

The rest happens in a rush, not strong at first, but gradually I allow myself to be carried along on waves of pleasure, a mishmash of sensations and events. Your hands running along my back and over my buttocks, disappearing between my legs. Your fingers noticing how wet I already am, and stroking slowly there, just the way I like it. Then deep inside me, with your thumb on the jewel. I sigh and squirm, venting my growing lust. You pull me off the table, forcing me to kneel before you. Your member at my mouth, stiff, beautiful. When did you undress? Oral gratification is no stranger to me and I take you in my mouth. Gently at first, playing with it a little, using my tongue to see whether you enjoy it. You do, but you take over and determine the rhythm with your hands grabbing my hair. You thrust deeper and deeper into my mouth until it almost overwhelms me. You notice, releasing me, and force me to look at you. Concerned, you give me a sip of water and ask if I’m alright. You offer me a way out. I don’t want a way out (but it feels secure to have one). I want you in me. Now. Not a wish I can put into words, but you can. You ask if I’m a slut who wants to be fucked. The words are coarse but as you intend it, it’s right and I know it is. I’m too torqued to answer you. Can only nod yes, blushing and full of shame as you put on a preservative.

The rapture returns when you force me to kneel on the floor, hands out in front of me. You warn me: I must not climax until you give me permission, and then you do what I so desperately desire. You take what I offer you: kneeling behind me, pushing my legs apart and filling me in a way that often gives me the greatest pleasure. From behind, starting slow and deep. With every thrust, I feel the jewel. Not painful, as I feared, but the opposite, as I hoped. Now I am complete. This is how it should be. No more nervous tension, only delicious arousal. Just before the redemptive climax, you pull out and spray your hot load over me, roaring. Animalistic and exhilarating, but also ambiguous. Proud of what I achieved with you, but empty, still yearning for my release. Then a dustpan and brush clatter in front of me and you point to the shards of crockery. You have taken me the way I have cleared the table. No climax as a punishment until I clean up the mess. “Bastard” flashes through my mind, but I keep it to myself, because I want more. More of this sensation, of your hands, your body, your voice, your spirit touching me. I do what you demand and on my knees I wipe the shards together. Meanwhile, you enjoy the view over a glass of sparkling wine. To my surprise, I enjoy it as well. Not only because I challenge you with my naked body clearing the mess, but also because of my subservience, having to do what you tell me to do. I want to be the pupil, to be dominated by the teacher who decides, who punishes me when I misbehave and praises me when I do my level best.

I work as fast as I can, because the warm throbbing desire between my legs gets stronger with every move I make. When I have cleared the mess, I’m allowed to join you. You remove the plug, as you call it, and wipe away the remains of your seed with a damp cloth. I am allowed one glass of wine as a reward, no more. The experience should be sufficiently intoxicating. You take a break. Break? I don’t want a break! I want to feel you inside me. I have to take into consideration you just had your climax. It’s nice to have you back in the ordinary way, although very little sense comes from my mouth. Do you notice that the tension of my need hasn’t left my body? Or does your own lust take over? Your eyes grow dark when you hand me the jewel again and ask me to wear it. Which I do immediately.

You tie the silk ribbon I dropped earlier over my eyes. My body reacts when you blindfold me. The tension rises again. My breathing quickens, my breasts and legs tremble. I smell your perfume. I hear a clinking sound. Then something heavy and cold weighs down on my shoulders, a chain that attaches to my collar with a click. I’m leashed in the dark, with only touch, sound, and smell. It overwhelms me. I never felt this kind of excitement before. It’s different, as if I enter some kind of trance.

In the dark, you use the chain to lead me until I reach the back of a leather armchair. You force me to bend over it, my hands leaning on the seat. Although, forcing, I want nothing more! Your lips touch mine, with none of that caution shown earlier, so you are in front of me now. We kiss violently, your tongue demanding mine. You break the kiss, but when your half-hard member touches my lips, I want only one thing, and I get it. It’s nice to feel it growing in my mouth and to work it over with my tongue. A beacon, as I have nothing else to vent my agitation with. Writhing, I try to rub my groin against the backrest, pressing my thighs tight together, but it is not enough.

You thrust just as deep into my mouth as before, but now I can handle it. I want to endure it. You growl, almost coming, but you hold it back and leave my mouth. You grab my hair and force my head to the seat, so I’m leaning on my forehead and my hands. I smell the leather, taste you on my tongue and hear you walk across the room. Suddenly, the wine we drank together flows over my back. The cold fluid with its tingling bubbles pours between my buttocks and legs, flowing over all my oversensitive spots. I moan and revel in it. Your hot breath washes over the inside of my thighs. Your lips and tongue licking away drops of wine mixed with my fluids and sweat. Your fingers, first playing with my breasts, then deep inside me again. You ask, growling, what I want. It seems as if I am possessed. I can only find peace having you inside me. That desire is absolute. You make me beg to be filled again, to be your slut. It flows from my lips, no more shame: “Take me, please, please.” I don’t have to wait long. You enter me, stretching me along with the jewel. I’m filled, lusty, and many more sensations I cannot describe. All fear evaporated. Any doubt I had disappeared. You want me, take me and I let you. Then you take off my blindfold and in a haze I see my painting. But it is not my painting; it is a wall mirror, hanging right in front of the chair. I look at my reflection like the angel at the couple, but before I reproach myself, my body takes over again. I am once again approaching a climax and you know it, notice it, hear it? Making me realise I cannot let myself go, just like that. It’s yours to allow. You do and my climax announces itself immediately. In my head I scream, in real life? No idea. Your voice is somewhere in the distance. I slowly come to my senses when you take me in your arms and lift me up. I can’t stop smiling, am in a state of ecstasy. You carry me to a sofa to lie against each other and relax. Now I can take a break, have some breathing space. I had my release. It is sweet, you are sweet. I want more, more of you, more of the pleasure you offer.

How many times did you drive me to climax the rest of the afternoon? Often, not often enough, the desire remains. Especially when you finally remove the jewel and explain to me that without the plug I’m not allowed to climax. It’s all right though; when you take me to my cell, I’m satisfied. Enjoy your care as you massage my exhausted body until sleep overtakes me. I am grateful to you for what you have given me. The assignment I found early the next morning, to write in this journal how I experienced the afternoon, wasn’t easy but I did it with pleasure. Too much pleasure, because I couldn’t keep to your rule that for the rest of the month I may not enjoy a climax without your permission or the plug.

x Milena