Gabrielle van Hessel: Part 3

Part 2

PART THREE

Chapter 1

That evening I was again in der Vlinder’s private back room, with van Hessel across the table from me and a pint of beer in front.

“So my lad,” said he, “are you entirely sure about accepting Gabrielle as your wife?”

“Sir,” replied I, “I have never been so surer of anything in my life.” And I spoke the truth. For whilst I had seen other wenches as comely if not more so than Miss van Hessel, and undoubtedly more virile and creative in bed, (for she as a virgin was completely inexperienced and trussed up so, I doubted that she could be very athletic also), there was something about this girl that captivated me, enthralled me, obsessed me. All that day following my visit to the van Hessel house, my mind could think of nothing else; of seeing her restricted like that, her arms rendered helpless, her feet squeezed into those tiny yet delightful boots that made the simple art of walking near on an impossibility, her waist corsetted into nothing, and all against her wishes. And the fact that I had watched it all and she knew nothing of it, she thought that I was as ignorant of it all as the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker! And how she had told me afterwards, pleaded with me to help her out of her situation, given herself to me believing that I was to be her saviour. No, of all that I had witnessed, that confession, hearing the words of the discomfort that she suffered and of the hope that she saw in me, that was the most erotically stimulating of all. I had not left my bedroom for three hours straight and my manhood was as tired a native coolie after a days work in the rubber plantation.

“But Mr. van Hessel,” I continued, “I want to continue this in my way, if you don’t mind.”

“What way is that, Wilhelm?”

“Well, as you know, I enjoyed coffee with your niece this afternoon and whilst there I embarked upon a little game with her. I chastised her for hating me, for running away. I asked what bad thing had she done to render such a punishment as being gagged. Well, what could she do but deny it. It was a quandary you see, on one hand I would think of her as disobedient and no lady, or on the other she gives you away. So, she told me about the restriction and I pretended to be shocked. I asked her to describe more, and I must say Sir, it was most exciting hearing it come from her own mouth. She asked me to feel her wooden limbs and her bound arms, and then Sir, implored me to help her. ‘Marry me and free me!’ It was most amusing.”

“Oh dear Wilhelm, it sounds so. I doubt that I, should I have been a man of your age, would have been able to control myself, Ha! Ha! What a lark, Sir!”

“Indeed, indeed. Anyway, so now she knows that I am interested in marriage, and that I know about her bondage. What she does not know however, is about our close relationship, that you are in on it all, and what’s more, she thinks that I am to be her saviour. Sir, I like that situation, and I should be pleased if it could continue. In fact, I would like you to appear almost against the marriage, whilst I will play up the role of the Knight in Shining Armour. What do you say to it?”

“Why Wilhelm, I assent. It is a lark true, but it also serves my purpose. For the fact is, I was worried that she would object to whomever I chose and perhaps cause a raucous in the church or whatever on the wedding day when of course her arms cannot be bound. In this way, I have the opportunity of sending the bint to the altar as meek as a lamb and still guaranteeing that she is treated in the manner that I see fit afterwards. Or at least I hope that she will be?”

“Whatever do you mean, Sir?”

“What I mean is that once married, I wish her present lifestyle to continue, so that she may never bad-mouth I and my wife nor come back to haunt us. Be you in the Indies or Duiveland, I wish her to be kept as now, helpless and bound.”

“Oh Sir, you need not fear on that account. I would not be interested in marrying the wench were she kept as a normal lass. I don’t want her for her money, nor her mind, nor even for the times that we shall spend between the bedcovers, for I can get that elsewhere and no doubt with ladies of a much more experienced nature. What’s more, getting  that elsewhere is something that I intend to continue doing – I fear that I loathe to give up my brown-skinned tropical beauties – and with a bound and immobile wife, that should not prove a problem.

“Well then Sir, we are agreed in all. We shall continue as you say, but also I have some stipulations of my own. If you are to keep her as I do, you have much more to learn. You need to know about her various forms of restraint, as I have more methods than just a gag and ballooning sleeves. You will learn about them and at the same time will continue to win her confidence. Then, a month or so hence, I shall lead my niece to the altar to become Mrs. Wilhelm van Wettering. Agreed?”

“Agreed!”

And at that we both clinked glasses and downed our beverages.

Chapter 2

And thus it continued in such a manner. Daily I would visit Miss Gabrielle, sit in that drawing room with its ticking clock and lace-laden table and drink coffee whilst she described to me the horrors that she was put through.

“But at least you rest at night my dear sweet Gaby,” said I.

“Oh no, Will, not even then. For that monster has decreed that I sleep in a sleeping bag.”

“A what?”

“A bag. ‘Tis made of leather and laced like a corset. It covers all of me, from my head to my feet, the only opening being for my nose and mouth. And it is tight and hot and I lie in it immobile until I am woken by my maids.”

“How awful!” exclaimed I.

That evening I journeyed down the tunnel and set my eye to the spyhole. There I watched as that heavenly creature was stripped of her clothing and left wearing only her chastity belt. Then another corset was put onto her, except that this one, unlike her daytime ones, had cut-outs for her breasts which ballooned out as if presenting themselves for a waiting man, (oh later on, I knew who that man would be!), and amazingly had no holes for the arms, those beleaguered appendages being crossed over at the top of her back, thus rendering her absolutely dependent on those around her. Then the Sleeping Bag was produced, a huge leather sack which she was placed into, and which was then laced tight all around her, displaying each and every one of her delightful feminine curves to perfection, and of course allowing her not to move a muscle, in fact to do naught but breath. I couldn’t wait any longer, and as van Hessel had not joined me that evening, I whipped out the bishop and jacked one off there and then. To think of her in that cocoon, so helpless… and the heat! To be encased wholly in leather on this sultry summer’s eve. Oh how much more she would suffer when in Batavia where even naked the heat is unbearable.

Returning to the study I asked van Hessel about the armless corset.

“It’s called a Venus Corset,” said he, “after the armless Venus de Milo. Mrs. van Hessel is always laced into one at night and that way she cannot object to me caressing her fine breasts and placing my manhood where it should be placed.” The thought of doing the same to Gabrielle excited me further.

“Let’s take a closer look,” said van Hessel, and together we tiptoed into the girl’s room. I was careful not to make a sound, but van Hessel shook his head. “You need not bother,” he said in a normal voice. The Sleeping Bag has built in ear plugs. She is as deaf as she is blind, completely oblivious to the world around her.”

It was fascinating seeing her entombed like that up close, her breasts rising and falling dramatically beneath the leather. “I do so like her large bosom and buttocks,” I commented to van Hessel.

“It comes from the corsetting,” he explained. “Before she was quite a plain girl, nothing of note in either place. But the corset restricts any fatty growth around the waist, but of course the fat must go somewhere – and we do control her diet to make sure that she puts some weight on, though not enough to make her obese –  and thus it is that we get this pleasingly rotund derriere, and those handsome breasts.”

I was amazed by the ingenuity of this man, and the fact that even what she ate was controlled and restricted. It was all so artificial. Like she was a toy, not a human being. And long may it continue of course!

Whilst in the room, van Hessel also took me over to Gabrielle’s wardrobe to show me the many modes of restriction that his niece was subjected to. There were cocoon suits, punishment corsets that lasted to her knees, stride impeders, countless pairs of shoes with ridiculously high heels, ankle chains, a joug, shoulder braces, neck corsets, (“She always wears one underneath her high collars or scarf,”) which forced the poor girl to hold her head up high and much more. This unusual collection excited me no end, especially when one considered that the owner was sleeping in the very same room, oblivious of what was going on around her.

“Would you like to try some on?” asked van Hessel.

“I don’t think that most will fit,” I said.

“Most no, corsets are out of the question, but you can try these.” He held out the stride impeders. They were two golden rings connected by a thick loop of rubber. I placed them around my knees and tried to walk. My stride was limited to almost naught and tottering across just the room took an age. “Now imagine wearing those along with a tight corset, neck corset, bound arms, and ballet boots.” I tried to imagine and it was a pleasant imagine that was conjured up in my mind. Being breathless and restricted so…

I tried on several more items of Gabrielle’s apparel. The ankle chain was interesting, the effect slightly different to the more flexible stride impeders, and the full hood was scary, to be so at the mercy of all. I knew that that was one thing that she would be making a lot of use of after her marriage! I also tried her arm bindings and wooden limbs. The effect of that was strange, yet exciting. Again it was the helplessness that did it for me, but also the artificiality added to matters. I mentioned this to van Hessel and he agreed. “I like it too,” said that fine gent. “That is why I have her and Mrs. van Hessel dress up as dolls  on odd occasions. I have had dolly faces made out of porcelain for them, through which there are two pin holes that they can view the proceedings, well a little of them, through. Indeed, I have several masks, look!”

I did so and was most interested. Several of the masks were of the typical Virginal Doll look, but several more portrayed an Oriental visage. “A relic of my travels,” explained van Hessel. “I sometimes miss those Oriental ladies, especially the beauties of Annam, Tonkin and the Empires of China and Japan. Well, on my last voyage I bought some costumes from all those places and afterwards I had these masks and some hair pieces made. Now and again, when the mood takes me, I dress Mrs. van Hessel or Greta the servant, up in a kimono or cheoung sam and have her mince around the house with this mask and an elaborate oriental hairpiece on.”

Now that sounded something! “But what of the small feet?” asked I, remembering the tales that I had heard regarding foot-binding in China, a practice that I had never come across but had always sounded intriguing.

“Well Wilhelm, I do not bind feet, as although it produces an extremely pleasant shape and a beautifully unstable walk, the stench is quite horrid. But of course, both my wife, and Gabrielle’s feet have been forced into tiny boots from an early age so they are not large and what’s more, with Gabrielle… no I shall let her tell you about her feet. But they are small and en pointe, so the effect is not too dissimilar to that of foot-binding.”

I tried a mask on. The porcelain admitted no air barring through the tiny breathing holes, and fitted closely so that within a moment I was sweaty and flustered. What’s more it contained a built-in wooden protrusion for the mouth which rendered speech and impossibility. To walk around all day wearing that…

“And now Sir, what do you think of this?”

Van Hessel pulled out a long leather sheath. “Put it on!” said he.

It turned out that this garment was a glove, a glove that fitted over both arms and held them tight together behind the back. I tried it on. It took a while to fit as it was rather tight, but once on, and laced, held my arms mercilessly in that position. Within a few minutes I felt them starting to deaden.

“Gabrielle wears this?” I asked in amazement.

“Why yes, every afternoon, when visitors are not admitted.”

‘By the Good Lord above!’ thought I. To wear such a garment daily!

“I should love to see her in it,” said I.

“Forget your hat and call round tomorrow at two for it,” suggested van Hessel.

Chapter 3

I did just as he suggested and the following afternoon found myself sat with my fiancee in the drawing room, her with her arms pinioned behind her and an embarrassed look upon her face.

“Whatever are you wearing?” exclaimed I in mock astonishment.

“My mono-glove. He forces me to wear it every afternoon.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“Very. My arms are dead and my shoulders are on fire.” Of course I knew all of this from my own brief experience in the glove, but hearing it come from her innocent lips made it all the more exciting.

Another day I took up the lead that van Hessel had given me and asked about her feet.

“Is it those boots that make you walk so unstably?” I enquired.

“Partially,” said she.

“What do you mean, ‘partially’,” I asked.

“He has done other things to my feet.”

“Like what?”

“I was forced to have an operation… when I first came here… he said that small feet were ladylike and mine were to be as small as possibly.”

“What did they do?”

“The surgeon, he removed by smallest toe on each foot, and also sections of my other toes and forced my big toe into a point.”

“That sounds painful.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t. It was all very professionally done, under anathesea and such. But the problem is, we are given five toes on each foot for a reason. I, with only four cannot balance well, I often stumble and fall.”

“That’s monsterous!” declared I, inwardly impressed at van Hessel’s idea. “Can I see your feet, please?” I added.

My Gaby daintily lifted the hem of her voluminous skirts and poked a foot out. It was tiny, unbelievably so. I was sent into raptures of delight, though of course I tried not to display this. Instead I changed the subject.

“We will marry soon,” said I.

“I fear he will object,” she replied. “This morning he was moaning about you at breakfast.” So, van Hessel was playing his part well, I thought. Jolly good!

Daily I visited the beleaguered Gabrielle, and daily she trusted me more. One day I even had a mock disagreement with van Hessel and then the next a mock making-up, before finally we had a mock grudging acceptance by him of my proposal of marriage. It was all so delightful, all the artificiality, her trust and his deception. Daily she told me of her restraints and nightly he demonstrated them and explained how to keep that gem that was soon to be mine.

And then, a month from the night when I’d watched her sleep, I was stood in Zierikzee’s great church whilst my bride, her arms unhindered for the first time in years, tottered down the aisle on the arm of van Hessel.

“Who gives this girl away?” asked the Man of God.

“I do,” said van Hessel, (no truer words ever were spoken, she had had no say in it all).

“Do you accept this man to be your Master?” asked the Pastor.

She did.

And with the document signed, the jewel was mine!

But the real pleasure cam later that day. I had been enjoying the feast with my friends whilst Gabrielle had been taken to the room several hours previously to be prepared for her wedding night. Eventually, at Eleven I could bear it no longer and headed upstairs to enjoy my new toy. Opening the door to my chamber I was confronted by one of the most enchanting sights that a man can see. Leaning against the wall was one of the most beautiful girls in all of the Netherlands, her body tightly-cocooned in a finely-made leather body corset that forced her toes into an en pointe position, her waist into miniscule dimensions and her arms behind her, leaving only her head and her hair done in beautiful ringlets free. Around her ankles, waist and neck were tied three large red bows and over the gag in her mouth was a large red rosette. Here was my present waiting to be unwrapped!

I went over to her and lifted her onto the bed, and took the rosette covered gag out of her mouth.

“Oh Wilhelm!” she cried, “I have waited so long for you! Get me out of this hateful cocoon, I wish to make love to my husband!”

“Later,” spake I.

“Later?”

“Do you not know the wedding tradition of the van Wetterings?” I asked.

“Nay.”

“Why before we enjoy normal congress, the woman must first pleasure her spouse using her mouth.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

And at that I shut her up by thrusting my throbbing bishop into her only free orifice, whilst she stayed as trussed up and helpless as ever before.

EPILOGUE

It is a typical sultry hot tropical eve in the Isle of Kalimantan. Besides the vast rubber plantation that he owns, Mr. Wilhelm van Wettering, once of the Dutch East India Company, now as his own Lord and Master, has built a huge white mansion in the Dutch style. And in that mansion, in the master bedroom her lies, nay, not lies but sits, his back against the fine teak headboard whilst he bounces a fair maiden on his unquenchable manhood. A pretty girl, with silky skin and her arms forced behind her in a black leather mono-glove. Who is she? His wife? His mistress? Nay, she is none of those. For that said wife, the fair Gabrielle of Zierikzee lies to the left of the two lovers, bound up in a tight sleeping cocoon, blinded and deafened by that awesome garment. And his mistress, the beautiful Fatima, a child of Batavia and one of the fairest maidens in the Indies, why she lies to their right, also bound up in a leather cocoon, her fine proportions picked out by the material, oblivious to all around her. And so the girl in the mono-glove, who is she?

Oh no one, just some comely village girl that this millionaire Raja of the Indies has picked up for the night to enjoy as is his whim.

Gabrielle van Hessel: Part 2

Part 1

PART TWO

Chapter 1

That night for many an hour I found that I could not sleep. What was van Hessel up to? Why have a pair of wooden, (and one presumes expensively made), hands and arms for a girl who already has perfectly good limbs. And if she does possess such limbs, then where were they when I kissed her? My mind was a muddle as to why, what and where…

But at eleven sharp the following day I was stood outside the coffin-like church of my hometown, feeling fresh, excited and curious. Two minutes later van Hessel, his wife and their ward came into sight, rounding the corner of the street that leads to their canalside home. It took them however, a full five minutes to walk the fifty metres or so across to the church steps where I was stood. I was intrigued. Had my father’s friend replaced her feet with wooden replicas also? Or perhaps she was hobbled? But why do that to a lady?

By the time they arrived the chests of both Mrs. and Miss van Hessel were heaving up and down at a great rate, as if they had just run a marathon.

“Good morning Wilhelm!” cried van Hessel.

“Good morning Sir, and you too ladies,” replied I, bowing to the latter.

“Would you care to escort young Miss van Hessel on her morning stroll, Wilhelm, whilst I attend to my good wife.”

“I would be honoured sir,” said I, turning to the younger lady. She was dressed today in a fine purple walking outfit, with an elaborate bonnet, her face covered by a lace veil. Her sleeves were as ever, of the Beret time, large and voluminous, but this time they encased real arms, as I saw the gloved appendages that protruded from them squirm a little. The ends of those arms however ended, as fashion dictated, in an elegant matching purple muff.

“Miss Gabrielle,” I said, “How are you on this sunny morn?”

The lady did not answer, which I considered a little rude, but knowing how she was against her step-father’s match-making attempts, I considered it perhaps understandable. ‘I shall make the wench love me,’ thought I.

“Your arm, Miss,” I said.

She lifted it up and I slipped my hand through. The limb was warm and soft, and undoubtedly real.

Thus we started on our stroll. Miss van Hessel walked at an incredibly slow pace, taking steps of no more than ten centimetres at a time.

“Why do you walk so slowly?” asked I.

Again she was silent. Too haughty to speak, the arrogant little miss! ‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘you need the training of a good husband.’ A man such as myself of course.

To be truthful though, her tiny steps I minded not, as walking with this divine creature was a pleasure. The curve of her minute waist, and the heaving of her breasts caused joy in my heart and a somewhat different reaction lower down. When no one was looking, I wheedled my hand in further and grasped that waist. Gabrielle gave a little gasp of surprise but again said naught. I heeded the haughty wench not but instead pressed harder. It made no difference. That waist, so small, was as hard as iron. Probably was iron actually, as I’m sure whalebone could not have produced such an extreme yet alluring shape.

We circled the House of God and then started back to van Hessel’s house. Covering the half a kilometre or so that we walked took an age, almost an hour I reckoned, but it was an hour of sheer pleasure for myself I shall admit. At the door I made to leave, but van Hessel stopped me. “Nay, nay Wilhelm, wait a second. You must kiss my niece goodbye.”

I felt the female body next to mine shudder, but I minded not. Instead I leant over, lifted her fine veil, and planted a fine kiss upon her ruby red lips.

Or at least that is what I intended to do. Instead, what happened is a felt my lips meet, not hers, but instead a piece of leather! I drew back in surprise and studied her fair visage. A visage that was only partially visible. Then I realised why she had not spoken to me all morning. Her mouth had been securely gagged the whole time. Her eyes looked pleadingly at me, and I have to admit that I realised the speech impeder suited her. I turned to van Hessel for an explanation and he grinned. “Van Wettering, why don’t you and I head to a tavern for a beer. There is something that I wish to talk to you about.”

Chapter 2

Of all the taverns in Zierikzee, der Vlinder is perhaps the finest. It is situated in one of the many small streets leading off from the bustling harbour, and beyond its stout wooden door is to be found an atmosphere of Dutch congeniality, some fine beers and more importantly, the comeliest serving wenches in town. Wenches who have been known to provide the customer with more than just beer. It was to this haven of pleasure that van Hessel and I retired, he going up to the proprietor and asking if we could please hire the private backroom, to which that fine gentleman of course assented. Sat in their, which a glass of the finest Netherlandish brew apiece in front of us, we began to talk.

“Wilhelm, before I start,” said he, “I need ask you a question?”

“What be it, Sir?” replied I.

“Young Miss Gabrielle. Does she please you?”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Then, should I consent, would you be willing to consider her as a wife?”

I thought. Of course I would, but only if she were fully-limbed and of course, still a maiden. “Well Sir, I would, only if she is what she appears to be.”

“And what does she appear to you?”

“A normal, healthy, beautiful virgin.”

“Then you have no fears. She is all of those. So, I ask thee again, would you consider my ward as your wife? For if you say yes, then we can continue, but if no, then we must to part now.”

“I consider her.”

“Right. That is good. Because ever since I set eyes on you young sir, I have considered you. I know you and your rakish ways. They disgust some, but they appeal to I. As I said before, a woman needs controlling. However, many a young man does not realise this, and their young wives get the better of them and soon enough they are a man no longer, but instead a snivelling hen-picked louse.”

“Aye Sir, I have seen it to often, and it disgusts me.”

“I also. We have had many a suitor coming to our door after Miss Gabrielle’s hand. After all, she is a handsome wench, no denying. But she is also a strong-minded lass, and one who could damage a man. Before she came into our care her upbringing had been quite shocking. My brother was one of those hen-pecked mice. His wife a shocking tramp. They believed in freedoms for women. That whore went around with a waist as broad as a barrel, not a corset ever in sight, considering herself the equal of my sibling. And the child was brought up the same, as a tom boy, sailing on a boat in trousers and shirt, travelling around the country with them, talking to any gallant that came along. She could have had her maidenhood picked by a man such as yourself at any time, had she been but a little older. Thankfully, the Lord intervened. Killed off those two pathetic excuses for parents and sent her into the arms of myself and my wife. So it was that we set about turning her into a lady.”

“Well, it was no easy task. First there was the corset, such as she had never worn, why how she screamed and threw tantrums. Thrice she ran away, but thrice did I catch the little  Jezebel. Well, thought I, this is not to last. We need control, we need discipline. We need to beat this sultry bint into a ladylike submission. Luckily for her, I was a man with experience in such matters.”

“Experience, Sir?”

“Aye lad, experience. Now this is a tale I have never told a soul since it happened, and by God Wilhelm, if thou tellest any, even thy father, then there shall be hell to play, be thee in Batavia or Zierikzee, I shall find thee!”

“I will tell none.”

“Good. My wife, a comely lass when younger. I noted it, that’s why I married her. Problem was others noted it also. Including a friend of mine, one van den Ouden. First he visited for dinner, and that whore starts winking at him. Next he’s coming for coffee in the day. Then I learn that the unthinkable happens.”

“No!”

“Aye, that! Well, what was a man to do? I tell you what, punish both the bastards, that’s what! So I gets him a job on a ship of a mate of mine. That young fox was out of work at the time, so I helps him as a mate. On a ship bound for Spain. Well, when they was out in the Bay of Biscay, which a seafaring man such as yourself, knows is renowned for its storms, a big wave comes and sweeps him overboard, God Rest His Soul. A wave known as I, Ha! Ha!”

“So that left only the wench. I thought to kill her also, but no, that wouldna do. She likes sex so much, well, then she can be denied it thought I. So I gets a goldsmith friend of mine to fashion a chastity belt, which one night I proceeds to fit around her coming privates and then solder shut. Permanent! Ha! No more playing around for you my love! She could pleasure me with her mouth, and should I require more, well, you’ve seen my servants have you not? Ever wondered why she was childless?”

“But why stop at restricting only her cunt, I thought. No, why not indeed? Well, first was the easy one, the waist. I subjected that to a lacing regime unseen in those times, until it would get no smaller. And then I moved to her feet, containing them in the tiniest foots imaginable, and with heels so high that she could barely stand. And just to make sure, I added a little chain between each ankle. Eight centimetre steps, that’s all I’ve ever allowed her.”

“Why is why she walks so slowly?”

“Aye, and the girl too!”

“She is subjected to the same regime?”

“Oh no lad, with her I’ve improved and refined it. I had to. She is more rebellious that my own wife and partner. Besides, it’s always fun to develop new tactics, eh?”

“Well, I wouldna know but all that you’ve described, it sounds…”

“Exciting, eh? Makes the male member wake up and ask for his breakfast?”

“Aye.”

“Well, lad, I will talk no longer. Come back to my house and you shall see for yourself.”

Chapter 3

Back at van Hessel’s house, we saw not the ladies, but instead he escorted me to his study. Once we were safely inside and the door locked, he spoke. “Now lad, no servant is ever allowed in here and you shall find out why. In the olden times this was the house of a smuggling ancestor of mine. Well, those who bend the law need to take precautions and he was no exception. Look at this.” Then he went over to the bookcase and took one of the books out. Behind it was a handle. He turned the handle and the case opened. Behind it I was shocked to find a narrow passage. We entered.

The passage was no long, and after a few metres we stopped. “We need go no further,” said van Hessel. “The tunnel leads to the sea, but I have no need for that. I only require here. Look!” There was a small peep-hole in the wall.

“There?” asked I.

“Put your eye to it,” said he.

I did as was bid and gasped. It was a spyhole into the dressing chamber of Miss Gabrielle. And that fair lady was in there, hanging from a lacing trapeze and whimpering. The comely maid was pulling her laces.

“Stop! Stop!” cried she.

“Nay lass, shut thee up! I have said before, the Master has stipulated thirty and five centimetres today and that is what I shall attain or my life will not be worth living.”

“But it’s too tight.. too tight!” moaned my prospective wife.

The maid paid no attention, but instead gave one last tug and tied off.

Then she disappeared out of sight and returned carrying a pair of boots. But these were no normal footwear, what boots they were. Why the unfortunate wearer would be forced to stand on tip-toes with them like a ballerina. The girl was released from the bar and lain on the bed. Then the boots were forced onto her feet causing more whimpers and pleas.

“Not the ballet boots, Greta!”

“Master’s orders again.”

It took an age for the boots to be secured, but I enjoyed every moment. The sight of this helpless, beautiful girl, forced into such extreme clothing against her will, her ample breasts heaving all the while and the rounded mounds of her buttocks quivering. “What is that around her privates?” whispered I, noticing a flash of gold.

“The chastity belt,” whispered back van Hessel. I had one made for her as soon as she started bleeding.”

“The same as your wife’s.”

“Nay, better. This one has rounded mounds of rubber within, that caress her all day long, causing a tension that can never be released.” I knew the feeling. My own member was extremely tense at that moment and had it not been for the presence of my father’s friend I’d have had no hesitation in relieving it there and then.

“Now your arms Gabrielle,” said the maid.

Then to my surprise, she took the white arms of my object of desire and folded them, so that the hand touched the shoulder and then using a leather pouch fastened them in that position. Then the wooden arms that I had been shown earlier were produced and cleverly fitted over the pouch, so that it appeared that they were her real arms. Of course this did not look real though, as her folded arms had a much greater bulk than normal. But then when the dress, a beautiful creation in green silk was produced, I realised the true genius of van Hessel. The huge Beret sleeves of current vogue ballooned out around her shoulders and upper arm and so completely disguised the folded arms. The wooden replacements, once gloved, looked like the real thing!

“How glad I was when that fashion came about,” whispered van Hessel. Before I used to sew the arms to the main dress or cuff them to her waist, but this is far better.”

“But why do it, to the arms?”

“Because I lady without arms is entirely helpless, entirely dependent, entirely at our mercy.” We both chuckled at this undoubtedly true statement. Gabrielle’s dressing was now complete. She stood, an angel of loveliness in the room, before the maid led her downstairs. Any normal observer would not realise how she could hardly move a muscle. They left the room and van Hessel spoke in a normal voice.

“Today for the walk, her arms were locked inside that muff. I have many forms of restriction that I use. You shall be introduced to them in time. Now, you know my secrets, I ask you firmly, once and for all, will you marry Gabrielle?”

Knowing what I did. Having a chance to be able to play with such a doll for life? Of course, I would. “Aye Sir,” I replied.

“Then Wilhelm, why not join your future bride for coffee and ask her yourself?”

Chapter 4

In the drawing room there was only I and Miss Gabrielle. She was of course unaware that I had been in the house for some time and that I had seen her preparations, so I decided to play a little game with her.

“Miss Gabrielle, did you enjoy our little stroll this morning?” I enquired.

“Oh yes, Sir,” answered she. “It was most pleasant.”

“You answer surprises me,” continued I, suppressing a grin. “For how could anyone enjoy a walk when gagged as you were.”

“Oh, I am used to it.” Then she stopped, seeming to regret what she had said.

“Used to it! You are punished often Miss?”

“No, I’m not punished often. I behave…”

“Then whyever were you gagged so?”

“Do you not know?”

“I cannot fathom any other explanation except that you had been disobedient, rebellious…”

“No Sir, it is my Step-Father. Mr. van Hessel, well… he likes his women to be… restrained.”

“Really?” I feigned astonishment though inside I was ready to erupt with laughter. “In what way?”

“Oh many Sir, but, I should not talk of such things…”

“Whyever not?”

“It is none of your business Sir, it is of no account to you.”

“But there Miss, you are wrong. Have you not guessed?”

“Guessed Sir?”

“Guessed my feelings towards you?”

“Feelings, Sir?”

“Aye Miss Gabrielle. I look for a wife and well, I would like to think that Heaven has placed one in my path…”

“Oh Mr. van Wettering!”

Her bosom began surging but I am sure that the greater tension was within my own breast. What a lark this was!

“But I fear that you despise me. You keep secrets from me, run out when I am here…”

“Oh no Sir, no, it’s just that…”

“That?”

“My mode of life is so strange… Has not my step-father explained?”

“Explained what?”

“The restrictions, restraints?”

“So what my dear, so what is you are gagged, and your corset is laced rather tightly. What difference does that make to me?”

“It goes further?”

“Further?”

“Yesterday Sir, did you not feel my arm…”

“Why yes, it was a little cold and hard. You are sick?”

(Oh how I was struggling to control myself whilst this poor girl sat believing that I was ignorant of her situation, and indeed perhaps, a possible saviour. I could last no longer, I took out my handkerchief and coughed into it).

“Oh Sir, are you alright?”

“I fear you may have passed your sickness onto me.”

“No Sir, I have not, I am not sick.”

“Then what then?”

“Feel my arm again, Sir.”

“I should prefer to feel your lips.”

“No Sir, my arm.”

I touched the wooden limb and its hardness and falsity excited me. Knowing that she was helpless, her own perfectly good arm folded uselessly in that balloon sleeve excited me beyond measure.

“It is false!” I said in a shocked voice. “You have a wooden arm!”

“Aye Sir.”

“So that is your worry. My dear sweet Gabrielle, I shall love you fully limbed or otherwise, do not fear!” Then I did what I had long wished to do. My hands grabbed her waist and completely encircled it, fingers touching at the back whilst I fastened my lips to hers.

She gave a gasp of pleasure. My manhood, unbeknown to her, exploded in its prison.

“My dear sweet gorgeous Gabrielle! Maimed or not, I shall always love you, please be mine!”

“No Sir, you misunderstand. I am not maimed, I am full-bodied.”

“But the wooden limb?”

“My own limbs exist…”

“But where?”

“Folded in my sleeve. Feel.”

I felt. How exciting it was, I had never experienced anything so erotic as this trussed up helpless and innocent young virgin.

“My God!” exclaimed I.

She looked sad.

“Does it hurt?”

“My arm goes dead after a while. And when released it aches.”

“He does that to you?”

“Yes, Sir. He demands I be kept in this way, like an animal, forever chained, restrained, a prisoner. Unable to do the simplest things for myself. Dependent on him and his will, everyday and every night. It is a living hell for me, please please help me Sir, set me free, let me escape from him!”

“I will, I will,” replied I getting excited once more. “I shall marry you my love!”

“Shall you?”

“Aye sweet Gabrielle, I shall.”

“Oh Mr. van Wettering!” And at that the helpless maid fell into my arms, smattered my face with her kisses, before passing out due to the excitement and tightness of her corset, whilst I disguised my uncontrollable laughter as tears of joy.

PART THREE

Chapter 1

That evening I was again in der Vlinder’s private back room, with van Hessel across the table from me and a pint of beer in front.

“So my lad,” said he, “are you entirely sure about accepting Gabrielle as your wife?”

“Sir,” replied I, “I have never been so surer of anything in my life.” And I spoke the truth. For whilst I had seen other wenches as comely if not more so than Miss van Hessel, and undoubtedly more virile and creative in bed, (for she as a virgin was completely inexperienced and trussed up so, I doubted that she could be very athletic also), there was something about this girl that captivated me, enthralled me, obsessed me. All that day following my visit to the van Hessel house, my mind could think of nothing else; of seeing her restricted like that, her arms rendered helpless, her feet squeezed into those tiny yet delightful boots that made the simple art of walking near on an impossibility, her waist corsetted into nothing, and all against her wishes. And the fact that I had watched it all and she knew nothing of it, she thought that I was as ignorant of it all as the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker! And how she had told me afterwards, pleaded with me to help her out of her situation, given herself to me believing that I was to be her saviour. No, of all that I had witnessed, that confession, hearing the words of the discomfort that she suffered and of the hope that she saw in me, that was the most erotically stimulating of all. I had not left my bedroom for three hours straight and my manhood was as tired a native coolie after a days work in the rubber plantation.

“But Mr. van Hessel,” I continued, “I want to continue this in my way, if you don’t mind.”

“What way is that, Wilhelm?”

“Well, as you know, I enjoyed coffee with your niece this afternoon and whilst there I embarked upon a little game with her. I chastised her for hating me, for running away. I asked what bad thing had she done to render such a punishment as being gagged. Well, what could she do but deny it. It was a quandary you see, on one hand I would think of her as disobedient and no lady, or on the other she gives you away. So, she told me about the restriction and I pretended to be shocked. I asked her to describe more, and I must say Sir, it was most exciting hearing it come from her own mouth. She asked me to feel her wooden limbs and her bound arms, and then Sir, implored me to help her. ‘Marry me and free me!’ It was most amusing.”

“Oh dear Wilhelm, it sounds so. I doubt that I, should I have been a man of your age, would have been able to control myself, Ha! Ha! What a lark, Sir!”

“Indeed, indeed. Anyway, so now she knows that I am interested in marriage, and that I know about her bondage. What she does not know however, is about our close relationship, that you are in on it all, and what’s more, she thinks that I am to be her saviour. Sir, I like that situation, and I should be pleased if it could continue. In fact, I would like you to appear almost against the marriage, whilst I will play up the role of the Knight in Shining Armour. What do you say to it?”

“Why Wilhelm, I assent. It is a lark true, but it also serves my purpose. For the fact is, I was worried that she would object to whomever I chose and perhaps cause a raucous in the church or whatever on the wedding day when of course her arms cannot be bound. In this way, I have the opportunity of sending the bint to the altar as meek as a lamb and still guaranteeing that she is treated in the manner that I see fit afterwards. Or at least I hope that she will be?”

“Whatever do you mean, Sir?”

“What I mean is that once married, I wish her present lifestyle to continue, so that she may never bad-mouth I and my wife nor come back to haunt us. Be you in the Indies or Duiveland, I wish her to be kept as now, helpless and bound.”

“Oh Sir, you need not fear on that account. I would not be interested in marrying the wench were she kept as a normal lass. I don’t want her for her money, nor her mind, nor even for the times that we shall spend between the bedcovers, for I can get that elsewhere and no doubt with ladies of a much more experienced nature. What’s more, getting  that elsewhere is something that I intend to continue doing – I fear that I loathe to give up my brown-skinned tropical beauties – and with a bound and immobile wife, that should not prove a problem.

“Well then Sir, we are agreed in all. We shall continue as you say, but also I have some stipulations of my own. If you are to keep her as I do, you have much more to learn. You need to know about her various forms of restraint, as I have more methods than just a gag and ballooning sleeves. You will learn about them and at the same time will continue to win her confidence. Then, a month or so hence, I shall lead my niece to the altar to become Mrs. Wilhelm van Wettering. Agreed?”

“Agreed!”

And at that we both clinked glasses and downed our beverages.

Chapter 2

And thus it continued in such a manner. Daily I would visit Miss Gabrielle, sit in that drawing room with its ticking clock and lace-laden table and drink coffee whilst she described to me the horrors that she was put through.

“But at least you rest at night my dear sweet Gaby,” said I.

“Oh no, Will, not even then. For that monster has decreed that I sleep in a sleeping bag.”

“A what?”

“A bag. ‘Tis made of leather and laced like a corset. It covers all of me, from my head to my feet, the only opening being for my nose and mouth. And it is tight and hot and I lie in it immobile until I am woken by my maids.”

“How awful!” exclaimed I.

That evening I journeyed down the tunnel and set my eye to the spyhole. There I watched as that heavenly creature was stripped of her clothing and left wearing only her chastity belt. Then another corset was put onto her, except that this one, unlike her daytime ones, had cut-outs for her breasts which ballooned out as if presenting themselves for a waiting man, (oh later on, I knew who that man would be!), and amazingly had no holes for the arms, those beleaguered appendages being crossed over at the top of her back, thus rendering her absolutely dependent on those around her. Then the Sleeping Bag was produced, a huge leather sack which she was placed into, and which was then laced tight all around her, displaying each and every one of her delightful feminine curves to perfection, and of course allowing her not to move a muscle, in fact to do naught but breath. I couldn’t wait any longer, and as van Hessel had not joined me that evening, I whipped out the bishop and jacked one off there and then. To think of her in that cocoon, so helpless… and the heat! To be encased wholly in leather on this sultry summer’s eve. Oh how much more she would suffer when in Batavia where even naked the heat is unbearable.

Returning to the study I asked van Hessel about the armless corset.

“It’s called a Venus Corset,” said he, “after the armless Venus de Milo. Mrs. van Hessel is always laced into one at night and that way she cannot object to me caressing her fine breasts and placing my manhood where it should be placed.” The thought of doing the same to Gabrielle excited me further.

“Let’s take a closer look,” said van Hessel, and together we tiptoed into the girl’s room. I was careful not to make a sound, but van Hessel shook his head. “You need not bother,” he said in a normal voice. The Sleeping Bag has built in ear plugs. She is as deaf as she is blind, completely oblivious to the world around her.”

It was fascinating seeing her entombed like that up close, her breasts rising and falling dramatically beneath the leather. “I do so like her large bosom and buttocks,” I commented to van Hessel.

“It comes from the corsetting,” he explained. “Before she was quite a plain girl, nothing of note in either place. But the corset restricts any fatty growth around the waist, but of course the fat must go somewhere – and we do control her diet to make sure that she puts some weight on, though not enough to make her obese –  and thus it is that we get this pleasingly rotund derriere, and those handsome breasts.”

I was amazed by the ingenuity of this man, and the fact that even what she ate was controlled and restricted. It was all so artificial. Like she was a toy, not a human being. And long may it continue of course!

Whilst in the room, van Hessel also took me over to Gabrielle’s wardrobe to show me the many modes of restriction that his niece was subjected to. There were cocoon suits, punishment corsets that lasted to her knees, stride impeders, countless pairs of shoes with ridiculously high heels, ankle chains, a joug, shoulder braces, neck corsets, (“She always wears one underneath her high collars or scarf,”) which forced the poor girl to hold her head up high and much more. This unusual collection excited me no end, especially when one considered that the owner was sleeping in the very same room, oblivious of what was going on around her.

“Would you like to try some on?” asked van Hessel.

“I don’t think that most will fit,” I said.

“Most no, corsets are out of the question, but you can try these.” He held out the stride impeders. They were two golden rings connected by a thick loop of rubber. I placed them around my knees and tried to walk. My stride was limited to almost naught and tottering across just the room took an age. “Now imagine wearing those along with a tight corset, neck corset, bound arms, and ballet boots.” I tried to imagine and it was a pleasant imagine that was conjured up in my mind. Being breathless and restricted so…

I tried on several more items of Gabrielle’s apparel. The ankle chain was interesting, the effect slightly different to the more flexible stride impeders, and the full hood was scary, to be so at the mercy of all. I knew that that was one thing that she would be making a lot of use of after her marriage! I also tried her arm bindings and wooden limbs. The effect of that was strange, yet exciting. Again it was the helplessness that did it for me, but also the artificiality added to matters. I mentioned this to van Hessel and he agreed. “I like it too,” said that fine gent. “That is why I have her and Mrs. van Hessel dress up as dolls  on odd occasions. I have had dolly faces made out of porcelain for them, through which there are two pin holes that they can view the proceedings, well a little of them, through. Indeed, I have several masks, look!”

I did so and was most interested. Several of the masks were of the typical Virginal Doll look, but several more portrayed an Oriental visage. “A relic of my travels,” explained van Hessel. “I sometimes miss those Oriental ladies, especially the beauties of Annam, Tonkin and the Empires of China and Japan. Well, on my last voyage I bought some costumes from all those places and afterwards I had these masks and some hair pieces made. Now and again, when the mood takes me, I dress Mrs. van Hessel or Greta the servant, up in a kimono or cheoung sam and have her mince around the house with this mask and an elaborate oriental hairpiece on.”

Now that sounded something! “But what of the small feet?” asked I, remembering the tales that I had heard regarding foot-binding in China, a practice that I had never come across but had always sounded intriguing.

“Well Wilhelm, I do not bind feet, as although it produces an extremely pleasant shape and a beautifully unstable walk, the stench is quite horrid. But of course, both my wife, and Gabrielle’s feet have been forced into tiny boots from an early age so they are not large and what’s more, with Gabrielle… no I shall let her tell you about her feet. But they are small and en pointe, so the effect is not too dissimilar to that of foot-binding.”

I tried a mask on. The porcelain admitted no air barring through the tiny breathing holes, and fitted closely so that within a moment I was sweaty and flustered. What’s more it contained a built-in wooden protrusion for the mouth which rendered speech and impossibility. To walk around all day wearing that…

“And now Sir, what do you think of this?”

Van Hessel pulled out a long leather sheath. “Put it on!” said he.

It turned out that this garment was a glove, a glove that fitted over both arms and held them tight together behind the back. I tried it on. It took a while to fit as it was rather tight, but once on, and laced, held my arms mercilessly in that position. Within a few minutes I felt them starting to deaden.

“Gabrielle wears this?” I asked in amazement.

“Why yes, every afternoon, when visitors are not admitted.”

‘By the Good Lord above!’ thought I. To wear such a garment daily!

“I should love to see her in it,” said I.

“Forget your hat and call round tomorrow at two for it,” suggested van Hessel.

Chapter 3

I did just as he suggested and the following afternoon found myself sat with my fiancee in the drawing room, her with her arms pinioned behind her and an embarrassed look upon her face.

“Whatever are you wearing?” exclaimed I in mock astonishment.

“My mono-glove. He forces me to wear it every afternoon.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“Very. My arms are dead and my shoulders are on fire.” Of course I knew all of this from my own brief experience in the glove, but hearing it come from her innocent lips made it all the more exciting.

Another day I took up the lead that van Hessel had given me and asked about her feet.

“Is it those boots that make you walk so unstably?” I enquired.

“Partially,” said she.

“What do you mean, ‘partially’,” I asked.

“He has done other things to my feet.”

“Like what?”

“I was forced to have an operation… when I first came here… he said that small feet were ladylike and mine were to be as small as possibly.”

“What did they do?”

“The surgeon, he removed by smallest toe on each foot, and also sections of my other toes and forced my big toe into a point.”

“That sounds painful.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t. It was all very professionally done, under anathesea and such. But the problem is, we are given five toes on each foot for a reason. I, with only four cannot balance well, I often stumble and fall.”

“That’s monsterous!” declared I, inwardly impressed at van Hessel’s idea. “Can I see your feet, please?” I added.

My Gaby daintily lifted the hem of her voluminous skirts and poked a foot out. It was tiny, unbelievably so. I was sent into raptures of delight, though of course I tried not to display this. Instead I changed the subject.

“We will marry soon,” said I.

“I fear he will object,” she replied. “This morning he was moaning about you at breakfast.” So, van Hessel was playing his part well, I thought. Jolly good!

Daily I visited the beleaguered Gabrielle, and daily she trusted me more. One day I even had a mock disagreement with van Hessel and then the next a mock making-up, before finally we had a mock grudging acceptance by him of my proposal of marriage. It was all so delightful, all the artificiality, her trust and his deception. Daily she told me of her restraints and nightly he demonstrated them and explained how to keep that gem that was soon to be mine.

And then, a month from the night when I’d watched her sleep, I was stood in Zierikzee’s great church whilst my bride, her arms unhindered for the first time in years, tottered down the aisle on the arm of van Hessel.

“Who gives this girl away?” asked the Man of God.

“I do,” said van Hessel, (no truer words ever were spoken, she had had no say in it all).

“Do you accept this man to be your Master?” asked the Pastor.

She did.

And with the document signed, the jewel was mine!

But the real pleasure cam later that day. I had been enjoying the feast with my friends whilst Gabrielle had been taken to the room several hours previously to be prepared for her wedding night. Eventually, at Eleven I could bear it no longer and headed upstairs to enjoy my new toy. Opening the door to my chamber I was confronted by one of the most enchanting sights that a man can see. Leaning against the wall was one of the most beautiful girls in all of the Netherlands, her body tightly-cocooned in a finely-made leather body corset that forced her toes into an en pointe position, her waist into miniscule dimensions and her arms behind her, leaving only her head and her hair done in beautiful ringlets free. Around her ankles, waist and neck were tied three large red bows and over the gag in her mouth was a large red rosette. Here was my present waiting to be unwrapped!

I went over to her and lifted her onto the bed, and took the rosette covered gag out of her mouth.

“Oh Wilhelm!” she cried, “I have waited so long for you! Get me out of this hateful cocoon, I wish to make love to my husband!”

“Later,” spake I.

“Later?”

“Do you not know the wedding tradition of the van Wetterings?” I asked.

“Nay.”

“Why before we enjoy normal congress, the woman must first pleasure her spouse using her mouth.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

And at that I shut her up by thrusting my throbbing bishop into her only free orifice, whilst she stayed as trussed up and helpless as ever before.

EPILOGUE

It is a typical sultry hot tropical eve in the Isle of Kalimantan. Besides the vast rubber plantation that he owns, Mr. Wilhelm van Wettering, once of the Dutch East India Company, now as his own Lord and Master, has built a huge white mansion in the Dutch style. And in that mansion, in the master bedroom her lies, nay, not lies but sits, his back against the fine teak headboard whilst he bounces a fair maiden on his unquenchable manhood. A pretty girl, with silky skin and her arms forced behind her in a black leather mono-glove. Who is she? His wife? His mistress? Nay, she is none of those. For that said wife, the fair Gabrielle of Zierikzee lies to the left of the two lovers, bound up in a tight sleeping cocoon, blinded and deafened by that awesome garment. And his mistress, the beautiful Fatima, a child of Batavia and one of the fairest maidens in the Indies, why she lies to their right, also bound up in a leather cocoon, her fine proportions picked out by the material, oblivious to all around her. And so the girl in the mono-glove, who is she?

Oh no one, just some comely village girl that this millionaire Raja of the Indies has picked up for the night to enjoy as is his whim.

Part 3

Gabrielle van Hessel: Part 1

Gabrielle van Hessel

 

By Dave Potter

PART ONE

Chapter 1

My name is Wihelm van Wettering and I come from the small port town of Zierikzee. I say that I come from there, but that is about all. The truth is, that although I am a native of that town it has been many a year since I have set foot in her. My trade is that of a sailor, and merchant and it is for that reason that I do not live in my native place. Instead, I dwell in one of His Royal Dutch Majesty’s Colonies, that of the East Indies, in the fair town of Batavia where I am a young, hard-working, and I am pleased to say, ever-rising official with the magnificent Dutch East India Company, the pride of our land.

A proud young man I may be, and a successful one, and what is more largely happy, Thank the Lord, but alas, also unmarried. Not that Batavia does not have its members of the fairer sex whom have tickled my fancy, indeed there have been far too many. Batavia is, in my opinion, one of the finest hunting grounds for those rakish young men of the globe who wish to find an exotic beauty who knows what she is doing just as much as she looks like she knows. Many a night have I lain by some brown-skinned Venus, my heart and mind in ecstasy after the performance of tropical lovemaking that I have just been subjected to. But alas, pleasurable as these ladies are, they are not suitable candidates for a marriage, society dictating quite rightly that a wife must be white, Protestant and wholly inexperienced between the bedsheets, until that is, her husband has chance to act as a teacher to her.

But whilst fair Batavia might abound in even fairer native wenches, even more alas, the pick of Netherlandish girls there is quite lamentable. The girls of my own stock to be found are but few and far between and the Lord it seems, was not at his most benevolent in handing out charms on the sad days when they entered this Life. On top of that, all are either prudish pastor’s daughters or well-protected by their fathers, who, like myself, having lived for most of their lives in sunnier climes, know what the tropical heat can do to even the most upstanding of young men.

So it is that I, Wilhelm van Wettering am unmarried at twenty-six, and in full realisation of the need to rectify this woeful situation. And so it is, that I, Wilhelm van Wettering, am stood in the Year of Our Lord 1832, aboard the good ship Groningen bound for my native land for the first time in a decade where I hope to sort out some financial affairs, see my kinsfolk and more importantly, find myself a wife to bring back with me to Batavia.

Chapter 2

I disembarked at the port of Rotterdam and went straightaway to the offices of the company where I had some business, before finding myself a lodging for the night and then going out onto the town to sample the delights for which she is famous, wrongly so I may add, for after having enjoyed the pleasures of the Oriental Angel for years upon end, those of even the finest trained of my own stock were sadly lacking and I must admit that the coming prospect of finding a permanent soul and bedmate from amongst them did not exactly fill me with glee. But nonetheless, the tensions of those long months on board the Groningen were somewhat relieved and it was with a clearer mind and emptier body that I left the following day for Zierikzee aboard the daily stagecoach.

My family were glad to see me, and I them of course, catching up on new cousins and learning of those who had sadly departed to the Other World. However, after several days of such activities I began to felt the pressing need to make some headway with the true reason for my journey home, that being the acquisition of a wife. And so it was that I was sat in the drawing room of my father’s house, whilst that said man and two friends of his puffed on pipes and sipped port wine when I decided to breach the subject.

“Father,” I said, “As you know, I am as yet unmarried.”

“Aye, so,” replied he, “But you should be thinking of rectifying that woeful situation and finding yourself a good God-Fearing woman to be your lifetime soul mate.”

“Well Father, to be fair, I am. But in Batavia the wenches are few and far between, leastways those of our race and creed and thus it is that one of my objectives in returning to this good land of ours is to procure for myself a spouse.”

“Tis good thinking my son.”

“But Father, I am at a loss. For where am I to look? I know the Netherlands not these days and where to find a suitable lady whose family and standing fit my requirements, well… I know not where to start searching.”

“You could try young Wilhelm, by visiting my home for a spot of coffee one afternoon.”

The man who spoke was one Jacob van Hessel, a merchant of Zierikzee and a long-standing friend of my father. He was a man whom the town held in high respect due to his wealth and I also, though for different reasons. During his younger days he had spent many-a-year on board ships and had sailed the Seven Seas, visiting Batavia amongst other exotic destinations. The other night we had been sat smoking and drinking and my father had been called away on some business. Alone in the drawing room, van Hessel had started to ask me about Batavia, my life there, and then tactfully he had moved onto the subject of the Batavian lasses and my exploits with them. It was not long before we had both become deep involved in a riotous discussion of my current and his former encounters with the whores of the world’s ports and his views on the weaker sex. “Control ‘em! Control ;em my lad!” he’d cried. “They need discipline, my, and a good lesson now and again!”

“Who do?” That had been my father, who had re-entered the room after having returned from his business.

“Natives, van Wettering,” van Hessel had explained. “Just telling the lad here about how the natives under you on the plantation and working as servants need control and teaching.”

“Aye,” said my father, comprehending nothing, and our conversation returned to its former subject, that being the price of coffee.

And now this van Hessel was suggesting I visit his house with regards to finding a wife. Was he about to offer more advice or tales? I knew not, but one thing was for certain. I would not let the good gent down. The very next day, a eleven sharp, I was stood on his doorstep.

Chapter 3

I was shown in by a maid, tightly corsetted as was the current, (and indeed pleasing), fashion of the day, and told to wait in the drawing room. I was escorted to that said chamber and told to sit. “Mr. van Hessel is not here, sir,” the maid explained, but the ladies will see to you.”

I sat and waited. Waited for what seemed to be an age in fact, before the door opened and two ladies walked in, or perhaps shuffled as the speed of their movement could hardly be called walking. The first was obviously Mrs. van Hessel, a woman of around fifty or so whom in her day must have been quite something and indeed even now retained a good bone structure. Following her however, came the maiden who caught my attention. She was about seventeen, or perhaps eighteen, with blonde hair done up in the ringlets of the day, with piercing blue Dutch eyes, and a somewhat mournful yet strikingly beautiful visage. She wore a blue silk day dress, with huge ballooning Beret sleeves such as was the fashion then, her hands encased in tight-fitting matching gloves. What caught my attention however, was her waist, or more importantly, the lack of it. Both the servant and Mrs. van Hessel had been tightly corsetted which pleased me, as like van Hessel, I not only enjoyed seeing the contours of a constricted middle, but also knew that such garments restrict women and make them weaker and more dependent on us stronger creatures, and aid in the control and discipline that my father’s friend had earlier mentioned. There is however, a corsetted waist and a waist that defies the Laws of Anatomy, and Miss van Hessel’s, (for that is who I assumed her to be), was one of the latter, it circumference could not have measured forty centimetres and could have been easily surrounded and enclosed by my two hands. It must have been a trial to wear also, as I could see the girl’s face looking pleasingly flustered and her breasts heaved under that silken dress.

“Mrs. van Hessel.” I bowed.

“Mr. van Wettering  I presume? My husband said that you may be honouring us with a call. So pleasant to meet you. Would you like coffee?”

I would have liked anything that would enable to stay in the presence of that delightful Dutch nymph sat across from her mother. “Yes, if it is no trouble.”

“None at all, Mr. van Wettering. But first, permit me to introduce my ward and niece, Gabrielle van Hessel.”

The girl, who had been staring vacantly into space, her mind seemingly kept busy with the effort of breathing, looked up and put on a smile that seemed delightfully false. I held out my hand, but she did not proffer hers, so a little surprised, I sat down again. “Mr. van Wettering,” she said, scarcely a whisper.

“Please, call me Wilhelm, ladies,” replied I.

We sat and talked. Mrs. van Hessel explained to me all about the girl, her ‘ward’ who sat through it all without saying a word. It turned out that she was the only daughter of her wayward brother, who had married a common actress and had lived a life of high living and moral laxity. “Well, that was until the judgment of the Good Lord came down upon them both, and they were alas killed in a fire which broke out in the tavern where they were staying at the time. The girl however, escaped, and came into my care. She was but thirteen years old, but a real urchin and ruffian.” Gabrielle looked downcast but still did not speak. “Thankfully for her, I and my husband have endeavoured hard and she is being raised as a lady.”

“That is good to hear,” said I politely, not interested in how she was raised, but more in how I could get that fair lass between the bedcovers.

We sipped coffee and the clock chimed.

“And you, Wilhelm. Why are you in the Netherlands this time?”

“Oh,” I replied. “To see my beloved family of course, to immerse myself in a good Protestant culture once more and also, to look for a wife.”

“A wife? You are not married?”

“Not yet, Madame.”

“But whyever not. Such a fine young man, and with wealth too.”

“Alas the opportunities for finding a bride are limited in Batavia,” I explained.

“Well, I wish you luck Wilhelm,” she said. “I know how important matrimonial issues are. We have been looking for a suitable match for young Gabrielle here, but no such man has yet located.”

The air was silent save for the creaking of corsets, but young Gabrielle’s face grew redder.

We left the subject at that.

Chapter 4

That Friday van Hessel again came to my father’s house.

“How is the wife-hunting going my young sir?” asked he.

The answer was not favourable. I had seen three eligible maidens, but alas, it was only they who would describe themselves as eligible. One was too fat, another with a face akin to that of a mule and the third decidedly pretty – in her younger days. No, I was still at Square One.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. He took a puff of his pipe. “You paid a visit to my house, did you not?”

“That I did sir, but alas you were not at home.”

“Did you meet my good wife?”

“Aye, that I did.”

“And young Miss Gabrielle?”

“Her also.”

“She is a handsome one, is she not?”

“Aye sir, that she is. She will make a good wife for one lucky man one day.”

“That I doubt not, but who? My wife and I are very particular as to the quality of men that we introduce her to.” He paused and puffed again. “Wilhelm, how do you feel that a wife should be treated?”

“With respect, courtesy, but also with discipline. She should know her place and know whom is Master.”

“Good lad.” He paused once more. “Visit my house again tomorrow at Eleven.”

I did so, and again was shown into that Drawing Room. Seated in there was Miss Gabrielle, again wearing a dress of high fashion with ballooning sleeves and a tiny waist, but this time, in pink. She was a vision of loveliness. She stood up when I entered and made a tiny curtsey. I bowed but she did not hold out her hand once more, so I sat. ‘Aye, to win this wench would be a prize,’ thought I. There was rebellion as well as sadness in her eyes. She would a package to open and no mistaking!

“Miss Gabrielle,” I said. “Are your mother and father not at home?”

“No sir, I am to entertain you, if I can?”

‘Oh, I’m sure you can,’ thought rakish old I.

“Well then Miss…” Her chest was heaving through a lack of air. Speaking was obviously a chore for her. “Well then, Miss, you are looking for a husband?”

“No, sir. They are looking for a husband for me.” She said ‘they’ with a vehemence. Like as if she hated her guardians.

“You do not want to marry?”

“Let me just say, that my choice and there’s would be different.”

“Oh. And what would your choice be?”

“A kind, gentle man, who respects his wife and lets her share in his life… A man like my father was to my mother.”

“And van Hessel disapproves of such men?”

“Let me just say that he has different values.”

‘Yet values that seem to coincide with mine,’ thought I. I had suspected that my father’s friend was interested in my becoming his ward’s suitor for some time. Now I was sure of it. And I was a forward man.

“Does he approve of me?”

“Yes, that he does.”

“But do you?”

She was silent. But I was not a man to wait for an answer. I leapt up out of my chair and grabbed her gloved hand and kissed it.

She started in shock and gave a little cry. Then her breasts started heaving nine to the dozen and she uttered the word, “Oh, sir!” before getting up out of her chair and mincing out of the room.

It was I however, who were in the greater shock of the two. For the hand that I had kissed had been cold and as hard as wood. In fact, I was convinced that that hand was actually made of wood, and no human hand at all. No wonder van Hessel could find no match for his ward. She was an amputee!

Chapter 5

I called again that evening at the van Hessel’s, this time in a fouler mood. That my father’s friend had attempted to fool me into marrying an invalid had angered me. “Is Mr. van Hessel in?” asked I.

“Aye, sir, he be in the study,” said the wonderfully-corsetted young maid.

“Then I may I see him?”

I went in and ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. A voice bade me to enter and I did so. Van Hessel was sat inside the room, a smoky room full of books and souvenirs from his wandering days.

“Van Wettering!” he cried, raising himself. “Please take a seat.”

“No sir, I will not. For truth be known, I am angered at you at present!”

“Whyever is that? What have I done?”

“Oh Sir, you know what it is that you have done! Nothing more than attempt to dupe me into marrying a cripple, that is what!”

“A cripple?”

“Aye Sir, a cripple?”

“Never did I do such a thing!”

“Lie not Sir, for I know. Your Ward, Gabrielle. A pretty face indeed, but I cannot be fooled! I kissed her hand this afternoon, and found it to be no hand at all, but instead a wooden replacement.”

Then, instead of the look of guilt which I had expected to have seen, a smile spread across the face of the old man. “An invalid, eh? Ha! Ha! Oh Sir, you are confused! An invalid! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

His jesting irked me. “Do you do not deny that the hand that I kissed was wooden?”

He stopped laughing. “I am sorry, Wilhelm, it seems like I mock you. No Sir, I do not deny the fact. The hand was wooden. However, because you kissed a wooden hand, it does not mean that my ward is an amputee.”

Now I was confused. “I shall explain,” he said. Then, to my surprise, he got up and left the room. A moment later he returned carrying a box. “Open,” he said.

I did so and found inside, two beautifully sculpted wooden arms. “It was one of these that you touched this morning,” said van Hessel.

“But what of Gabrielle’s arms?” asked I.

“Oh they are still very much attached to her personage. Meet me in the park besides the church tomorrow at Eleven and you shall find that out for yourself.

Part 2

Together Forever

Together Forever

Part I

Ahmed smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her approaching. At the same time every day she got off the bus and walked past the café en route to her studies in the university. Her name was Yasmin and she was, quite simply, the most beautiful girl in the world.

together forever

He’d first noticed her weeks before. He had been sitting in the café drinking his tea when, looking up from his textbook by chance, a beautiful woman had been approaching. She was wearing a black hijab and long, flowing abayah, which accentuated her beauty and showed her to be a good, modest girl. Ahmed was smitten. He took to sitting in the café at that time every day in order to catch a glimpse of her as she passed by. Not only that, but he asked questions. He enquired of the waiter if he knew who she was and learned that she was a student at the University of Mosul, a fact that he knew because his niece was also a student there and he had seen her talking with the girl in question. With some baksheesh, Ahmed managed to get the waiter to talk to that niece and find out more. That was when he learned that her name was Yasmin al-Rashid and that her father was a lawyer in the city. She was also studying law, that she was Sunni and, most importantly, she was single and had confessed to noticing the handsome youth who sat in the café by the bus stop every day. Oh yes, and her favourite flower was the national bloom: the red rose. Which was why he had one such rose in his hand and, as she approached, he rose from his seat, walked up to her and presented it to his belle accompanied by the words, “A gift for the true Rose of Mosul.”

The following day they were sitting in the café together.

And the day after that, walking by the rivers of the Tigris, they shared their first kiss.

The months that followed were like a slice of heaven for Ahmed. Indeed, they were so fantastic, he felt as if they were not real and such happiness could not last. Sadly, he was right. One Friday, just as the month of June was beginning, Yasmin came to their favourite bench overlooking the river in tears. She’d had a meeting with her father who told her that, since she was due to graduate in a matter of weeks, it was time to face up to her responsibilities. “A woman your age should be married and I have had an offer for your hand. It is a good offer, one that we could never refuse. Yusuf al-Qassim has noticed your beauty and intelligence and wants you for his wife.”

Yasmin had gasped. Yusuf al-Qassim was a name known to everyone in Mosul. He owned several local factories and countless properties, and companies, including the law firm that her father worked for. He was close with important figures in the government, a supporter of numerous mosques and charitable foundations and rumoured to have a fortune worth billions of US dollars. None of that meant anything to Yasmin however, not with Ahmed.

“But father, he is old, in his fifties!”

“I am ten years older than your mother. Age is in the mind and it is said that he keeps fit and healthy.”

“But he is already married!”

“Your grandfather had multiple wives, and our Prophet, peace be upon him. There is no shame in being a second wife, indeed, you will doubtless end up as his favourite.”

“But he is so strict and religious. He wears jellabiya and a beard and his wives, or so it is said, stay within the home and cover strictly!”

“Bazaar rumours, dear daughter, that is all. I have spoken with him. He will respect you and allow you freedoms, I am sure. Besides, how can you refuse him? He represents great prosperity for our entire family; if you refused the company could be closed down and then how would we feed ourselves? No, darling, this is an order: you will marry Yusuf al-Qassim a month from today.”

“But, how can I?” she asked Ahmed, tears in her eyes. “I love you!”

“You cannot! It is again heaven! We will be together, do not fear.”

“But how?”

“We will elope together. We can go to Baghdad and hide in the slums there. We will marry and when that is done and sanctioned by an imam, your father will have to accept us!”

A week later they were in the capital, in the working-class district of Ghazaliya. They were lying on a mattress in the humble room that they had rented for a pittance. It was a rude hovel, but it was theirs and both were in bliss for, moments before, they had joined their bodies in mutual adoration. Thus, it was that they lay, naked, in each other’s arms, both thinking that life could not be more perfect. “We will stay together forever, my love,” Ahmed whispered to the woman who he was due to marry at the Jumma Mosque on the morrow.

But in a split second that perfection was shattered into a thousand pieces. Without warning, four figures barged through the door to the room and made their way to the young couple. Dressed in military fatigues, carrying AK47s and wearing masks, they were terrifying. Each of the lovers was grabbed by one of the heavies while another placed a damp pad over their faces. The chloroform caused both to faint clean away within seconds.

 

Part II

Yusuf al-Qassim stirred his tea slowly then, carefully, put down the spoon, smiled and looked up at his guest. “The folly of youth!” he exclaimed softly. “What are we to do?”

“I am so sorry, brother, truly I am,” said Mustafa al-Rashid, his face distraught and broken. “I am so ashamed. That she would even think about refusing your hand, then running away with that rake and then, then…”

“It is unfortunate that the men I hired located them too late, but at least they found them. Your daughter is safe, that is all that matters.”

“Safe, but shameful. How can I ever accept her back into my home, knowing that she has been with a man outside of marriage.”

“You do not need to accept her back into your home; she may enter mine instead.”

“But how can you accept her after such a crime?! Who would want a sullied wife?”

“Allah is merciful,” replied the businessman, raising his eyes heavenwards as if the Lord Himself was sitting there. “As I said before, youthful folly. She is not a bad a girl, although the crime is serious. I cannot marry her now, it is true. She needs to repent and understand the error of her ways. But, I made a solemn promise to you, dear friend, to take your daughter off your hands and care for her. I am not a man who breaks his vows and so that still stands. She may enter my household and I will provide for her needs until a suitable candidate for her hand can be located. But the dowry I promised you which, I believe, is to pay for your son to complete his studies, will still be provided. Half a million dollars I believe it was. You, after all, are not to blame.”

“Yusuf, you are too kind!”

“As I said, Allah is merciful. Besides, a stay in my home will do her good, morally.”

“That is too true, Yusuf; your morals are legendary!”

Al-Qassim nodded but did not say a word. He took another sip of his tea. Then, putting it down again, he said, “The boy?”

“What of him?”

“What do you want me to do with him?”

“Alas, our laws do not recognise what he has done as a crime.”

“But you feel that justice should still be served?”

“Of course, but how?”

“Trust me, I am an expert in meting out justice. If you place this matter in my hands, then I shall see your honour is restored.”

Al-Rashid smiled. As a lawyer, he knew the rumours about how people like Yusuf al-Qassim meted out justice. It usually meant taking the suspect to some location deep in the desert and putting a bullet in the back of their head. He could not think of a better end for the wretch.

Ahmed came around to find himself still naked, sitting in a chair in a white room. He tried to get up but found that he was firmly secured to it, straps going around his wrists, ankles, stomach and neck. He struggled against them, but it was clear they were firmly tied. He would not be escaping.

He turned his head and discovered, to his left, that his love was sitting in a chair next to him. Like him she was completely naked and firmly secured. It angered him that she was exposed to the world but then was thankful that she was still alive. Not that that meant much. He had no doubt who it was that had kidnapped them, nor what to expect from him. The rumours in the city said that Yusuf al-Qassim was a harsh man. They could expect no mercy.

After a few minutes, Yasmin came around. She slowly opened her eyes and took in her predicament. A tear fell from her left eye and then she turned to her right and saw Ahmed. He smiled at her and whispered, “Love you!”

“Together forever,” she whispered back.

“Together forever, eh?” Both bodies started as if shocked by electric. The voice came from behind them. Craning round, they saw a door open and a man walk in. A man called Yusuf al-Qassim.

He strode around the room until he was standing directly in front of them and then said with an evil smile, “Well, well, well, what do we have here then? Layla and Majnun[1] perhaps?”

They did not answer. They knew they were at his mercy.

“I could have you both killed, you know. You have dishonoured my name and your father’s, young madam. Whereas you…?” He let the words linger and horrific scenarios form in their heads.

“However, I am a merciful man. Yes, Yasmin, you should have been my wife; yes, you should be pure, but I can recognise true love when I see it. It is rather beautiful. Together forever, eh? Well, if you wish it…”

“We do, sir, we do! We are sorry to have displeased you, and Yasmin’s father, but we cannot help how we feel. We love one another and…”

“Shh, young man. Do not state the obvious. I will not kill you and I will allow you to stay together until death do you part which, Inshallah, shall be many years from now. However, some things will change. That though, is for later. First things first, tea!”

Al-Qassim clicked his fingers and two of the hired heavies entered. They were no longer wearing masks but looked equally fearsome without them. They untied the belts fastening the two lovers to the chairs and then let them stand. Then they gave each a loose jellabiya to protect their modesty, before taking their arms and leading them out of the room.

They went down several corridors, each lavishly decorated in beautiful mosaics or murals, before entering a large room with a table in the centre. At the table were three chairs. Al-Qassim took the centre one with a lover on either side. Even when they were seated, the heavies stood behind.

A maid entered, veiled in black so that only her eyes could be seen. She set down a steaming silver teapot and three cups on the table. Then she methodically poured out the tea before handing out the cups to the three drinkers. “Go ahead, drink,” said al-Qassim, beckoning for his guests to go first. They did so, and he smiled. The maid poured them both a second cup.

“I should like you to meet my wives,” their host then said. “He turned to Yasmin. “It is a crying shame that you shall not be joining their number, but evidently, that was not the plan of fate. However, it is only correct that you should meet your would-be sisters.”

He snapped his fingers and a pair of double-doors in front of them opened. Standing behind them were three completely-veiled figures. Nothing whatsoever could be seen of them; they were like pillars of black cloth.

“Drink,” said al-Qassim. The lovers did as bid, both glad that Yasmin had escaped the fate of living her life in such strict purdah. The maid refilled the cups.

“From left to right there is my first wife, Someya; my second wife, Zaynab, and my third wife, Sara.” As he spoke, each of the veiled mounds nodded in turn. “There was Rashida too, but she passed away three months ago, freeing up a vacancy. A vacancy that I had hoped you would fill, Yasmin. However, it was not to be. Please, do you like the tea?”

“Y-y-yes, it is nice.”

“It is brewed from the finest leaves from the province of Hunan in China. $100 a cup. Please, drink.”

They did as they were bid although by now Ahmed had noticed that their host had not touched his cup.

“Hmmm, I tell you what. Since we are among friends and will be seeing a lot of each other in the future, why don’t I ask my wives to unveil in front of you?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t…”

But al-Qassim never let him finish. Instead the businessman snapped his fingers and the maid went over to the wives and, with a deft flick, removed the veil from each one. As the cloth fell to the floor, both Ahmed and Yasmin gasped.

In horror.

Standing in front of them were three women. But these were no normal women. Their heads were. All three were beautiful – or had once been – with expertly applied make-up and finely coiffured hair. But below the necks something was wrong.

Their necks all protruded from ceramic pots. Ceramic pots that rested on pedestals. Each did not seem to possess a body. The pots were beautiful, covered in floral designs, rather like those old Assyrian, Babylonian or Hittite ones that Ahmed had viewed in the National Museum when he’d visited Baghdad, except for one small detail. In the front of each one, near the bottom, was a small window in the ceramics through which a set of denuded womanly lips protruded.

“What on earth…?”

“Bring over Sara!” announced al-Qassim. The maid went over to the youngest and prettiest of the wives and, using the two handles of the pot, picked it up and carried it over to the table. It did not seem to be heavy at all and was only about a metre high at most. Where was her body in there? And why were her most intimate parts exposed?

Yusuf al-Qassim stood up, leaned over and kissed the lips of his youngest wife. Then, using his hand, he brushed the exposed lower lips that protruded from the pot. Sara smiled but said nothing. Al-Qassim then turned to his guests and said, “I think it is time for a history lesson. I’m a history enthusiast, did you know? I actually use some of my extensive fortune to fund archaeological digs. Were you aware that I have a particular interest in the Hittite and Assyrian Empires?”

Neither Ahmed nor Yasmin had been aware of any of that, but what they were both increasingly becoming aware of was that something was seriously wrong. Their host’s line of conversation possessed a dark undertone to it and the entrapment of his wives in ceramic pots could never be normal. More immediately concerning though, was the fact that their bodies weren’t responding to the commands that their brains were sending them. Ahmed tried lifting his arm, but it would only move a few millimetres whilst when Yasmin tried to say something, her tongue felt heavy and only a groan came out. Either al-Qassim did not hear this groan or he deliberately ignored it.

“Yes, the Hittites and Assyrians. Amazing civilisations, world leaders in their day, yet we rarely talk about them today. Such a shame… we could learn so much. Their religion was particularly fascinating you know. They worshipped many gods you know, countless. As good Muslims, we understand their ignorance today, of course, but it still worth exploring their cultic practices for historical reasons. One deity that always appealed to me in particular was named Ishtar. Have you ever heard of her? No? Oh well, she was a beautiful creature, the ‘Queen of Heaven’ they called her, the goddess associated with love, beauty, sex, desire, fertility, war, justice, and political power. Which, as chance would happen, are all the things that turn me on. Anyway, twenty years ago, when I was still a young man, a fascinating find was made in the mountains to the north-east of here, not far from Aqrah. In a cave, archaeologists unearthed a temple complex dedicated to her. It was a large place with some incredible murals, but what was most intriguing were huge quantities of pots with human remains inside them. Now, at first these were merely assumed to be funerary vessels; people died, and they were buried in pots. Such practices were, after all, common across the Bronze Age world. However, upon closer investigation at the University of Baghdad of both the pot themselves and also the inscriptions on the walls of the temple, an astonishing discovery was made: the occupants had all been interred within the ceramic jars whilst still alive!

Yes indeed, what a discovery! It turns out that, to honour the goddess, noble families chose to deliver one of their daughters, usually the second-born, to the temple. Once there she would be ceremonially inducted into the Sisterhood of Ishtar in a mystical ceremony during which she was plied with herbs that rendered her unconscious for a number of days and slowed her heartbeat to almost naught. Then, her body was taken to the main altar, stripped and her four limbs amputated before being cast into the eternal flame as an offering to Ishtar. After this the high priest would open up her chest and start taking away what was not required. For what they had learned was that living in a pot requires much less body mass, so most of the organs inside were either removed or reduced in size. The liver, stomach, bladder and intestines were reduced in size while one kidney and lung were removed. Most of the bones were also removed, leaving only the skull and some of the spine intact. The only thing that was left alone was the heart since that, as you two lovebirds know better than anyone, is more important than anything. After that, her skin was stitched back together and she was carefully fitted inside the pot that had been made for her, first the bottom and then the two top halves until they were all joined together and she was snug as a bug in a rug, with her head popping out of the top and her private parts accessible for waste disposal purposes. And thus, she would live out the rest of her days – which, according to the inscriptions on the walls, could be numerous indeed – standing on a shelf in the temple, reciting praises to the goddess and acquiring good karma for her family in the afterlife. What a strange yet marvellous practice, do you not think?”

Neither Ahmed or Yasmin liked the way that this was all headed, but they both liked far less the fact that they now seemed to be completely paralysed, their heads drooping against each other for support while their tongues lolled out of their mouths.

“Well, me being such a history aficionado, I thought, ‘Why not try and bring history back to life?’ and who better to start with than my unfaithful, nagging and thoroughly interfering wife, Rashida. So, it was that I contacted the finest – and least ethical – surgeon in the world, a man by the name of Martinez from Brazil, and outlined my vision and the amount I was prepared to pay him. He expressed some reservations as to whether she would survive, but I merely assured him that if the Assyrians could manage it then so must we, their descendants. And so, she was sedated and put under the knife and there before you is the result. Potted as she was, she gave me great pleasure and so, when it came time to remarry, I did the same with Someya, then Zaynab and then, ten years after, with Sara here as well. And you, dearest Yasmin, were to become my next potwife but, well, as we have said before, it was not to be. However, I am never a man to let a good opportunity go to waste and your love story touched me to the core and so I thought, why not? They want to be together forever; who am I, Yusuf al-Qassim, to stand in their way? But then I considered that you have both sinned grievously, against both me and Yasmin’s poor father, and, thus, a degree of punishment is necessary. Which is why I brought you here and gave you that tea. It is expensive and from Hunan Province, but what I forgot to mention earlier is that it is also laced with a large dosage of neuromuscular-blocking drugs which have the exciting effect of paralysing your entire body but ensuring that you stay awake throughout. I thought, whilst those ancient virgins in that Ishtar temple not far from Aqrah had the honour of becoming potgirls, due to the primitive technology of those times, they were denied the opportunity of watching their transformation take place. You two, however, are more blessed. Come, to the operating table!”

And with a click of his fingers, the two heavies lifted the inert lovers up from their chairs and carried them out of the room.

Part III

It was an ordeal of such horror than even a Hollywood filmmaker could not have conjured it up. Ahmed remembers every single minute of it; indeed, time seemed to pass in slow motion. He recalls being carried through the corridors to a lift which then descended downwards to a well-equipped underground operating theatre where a surgeon and his assistant in scrubs stood waiting. He was laid on the table and each of his limbs was sawn off with precision. Thankfully, the drugs had also deadened all feelings, otherwise he is sure he would have died from the pain.

After the limbs were gone, he watched the surgeon cut open his chest and start working on his organs. He gazed on in horror as a kidney and a lung were removed, and then the surgeon meticulously reduced the size of his liver, stomach, bladder and intestines. After that, he got to work on the bones, removing ribs and those around the pelvis. All the time, he was able to see every detail in a huge mirror placed directly above the bed on the ceiling. Then he saw the surgeon stitch the skin back together leaving him with a limbless, misshapen torso only slightly larger than his head.

And after all of that, his head was turned to one side and he watched the entire process be performed on his beloved. That hurt more. Mutilating him was one thing, but when he saw them lop off parts of her perfect, gorgeous body, and reach into her innermost recesses, tears flooded from his eyes. Never had he imagined that man could be so barbaric and all the while Yusuf al-Qassim stood watching, clad in scrubs, a medical mask over his face, his eyes smiling.

When they were done, he was carried over and placed alongside his love. She stared at him with defeated, scared eyes. What had happened to them both?

“That is enough for today,” said al-Qassim above them. “I like an element of surprise and so we’ll knock you out now, but I know you’ll both love what comes next!”

And with those words, a gas mask was placed over his face and Ahmed passed out.

 

Part IV

He awoke to find himself in a warm, light room. There was the faint odour of frankincense burning and a breeze caressed his cheek from the right and sunlight flooded in from the same direction. As his head cleared, he tried to move. His entire body was totally immobile. Indeed, most of it had no feeling at all. Only two areas could he move: his face and his manly tool. As he accustomed himself to the surroundings, he tried out his new form. He raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. He tried to speak but only a groan came out. He sniffed with his nose and tried to turn his neck. There was feeling in the latter, but it would not budge. It felt like it was held in a vice. Down below, he could feel the breeze on his member. He tried using the muscles and it twitched.

Soon after he drifted off to sleep again.

When he awoke for a second time, Yusuf al-Qassim was standing before him smiling wickedly. Ahmed tried to speak again, and a faint croak came out. The smile broadened. “Don’t worry, your voice won’t be coming back,” said al-Qassim. “I had the vocal chords severed, although you will be able to groan a little.” There was a noise, another croak, to his left. Ahmed tried turning his head, but it would not budge. He could only look straight ahead.

“So, Layla and Majnun, you’re both awake at last! You’ll be pleased to know that the operation was a success; you didn’t die. Back in the Assyrian times, mortality could be as high as fifty per cent you know, but surgery is more advanced these days. Anyway, I suppose you’re itching to see what the finished article looks like? Well then, here we go!”

He clicked his fingers and two maids came in carrying a full-length mirror. What was reflected in it was like a vision from heaven and hell at the same time.

It was a pot. A large, traditional Assyrian pot, elegantly curved with a handle on each side and traditional-style artwork surrounding it. What was more shocking though was that, unlike most pots, this had not one neck but two and from those two necks protruded two heads: his own and that of his beloved. Both were immaculately made-up. On the top of his head, he wore a felt hat decorated with feathers. Yasmin wore her hair in long braids with a traditional-style headdress festooned with silver adornments. They looked like a pair of Assyrian nobles. Around their necks, reaching right up to the chin were severe gold collars decorated with writing. The only other parts of them visible were in two windows in the front of the vase. One revealed Yasmin’s womanly cleft that seemed now to be adorned by a gold ring while through the other protruded his – now erect after seeing the face of his beloved – member. That too had been pierced with a gold ring.

“What do you think?” exclaimed al-Qassim laughing. “Together forever, Layla and Majnun. Of course, you shall be; why, you even share the same pot!”

Part V

As the days, then the weeks, then the months and then the years, Yasmin and Ahmed learned the full depths of al-Qassim’s depravity. Entombed within their pot, they had no control over their destiny or bodies. Completely immobile, unable to even regulate the temperature of their reduced torsos, they were entirely at his mercy.

And he made the most of it.

They learned the main feature on that very first day. Taking a remote out of his pocket, al-Qassim pushed a button and, slowly but surely, their heads started to move. While their bodies still faced forwards, the golden collars – which he later told them had ‘Layla’ and ‘Majnun’ inscribed on them respectively – turned their necks so that they faced one another, gazing into each other’s eyes.

And there they were left, their faces only inches apart but unable to touch. All they could do was look at one another and reflect on their tragedy. And in that position, they were left all day, every day.

Except when he wanted to torment them further. On that first evening he came back to see them and, using his remote, turned their heads forward. He walked up to the giant pot and then he rubbed his hand over Ahmed’s penis. The touch was exquisite yet also humiliating. The thought of a man caressing him there. Despite this, it sprang into action. Ahmed was desperate for release, but then, al-Qassim smiled and left it, turning his attentions to his one-time betrothed.

And then, in the full-length mirror, he watched their captor unfasten his robes to reveal his own straining member, which he then carefully, and gently, inserted into her waiting love cavern. Against her will, she groaned in a mixture of pleasure and disgust and al-Qassim brought his lips to her and kissed her passionately.

Ahmed was forced to watch the entire rape.

Then, without a word, al-Qassim turned their heads back facing one another and left them, turning the light off as he went. The shame and guilt in Yasmin’s face was plain to see.

Al-Qassim visited often at first. Always to rape Yasmin and torment them both. He explained with glee how, as well as their names, their collars were inscribed with quotes from the famous Layla and Majnun poem:

“They tell me: ‘Crush the desire for Layla in your heart!’ But I implore thee, oh my God, let it grow even stronger…My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty, my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is!” around Ahmed’s collar and “Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Born of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.” Around Yasmin’s.

They both cried when he told them.

And on another occasion, he explained the pictures that surrounded the pot. In the style of ancient Assyrian art, they were a pictorial telling of how they’d met. There was Ahmed in the café, him handing Yasmin a rose, the kiss by the Tigris, her father’s order to marry al-Qassim, their elopement, the kidnapping and then the whole horrible ordeal at the hands of their tormentor.

And all the while he explained the images, he had one hand on her love slit, playing with its ring and the other was tugging playfully on the similar ring that impaled the head of Ahmed’s member.

They had other visitors too, but only al-Qassim ever spoke to them. The maid came several times a day to feed and water them. She would take away the little golden bowls that collected their liquid wastes and would feed them tiny spoonfuls of mush washed down with water. They never ate much as their reduced stomachs could not take it and, because their bladders had been similarly downsized, there was soon the tinkle of golden waters in their bowls.

And all the while they stared into one another’s eyes, together yet never touching.

Yes, for even inside the vase, they were separated. Al-Qassim sadistically explained that, when designing their captivity, he had ordered a dividing wall to be placed between them so that even their deformed and reduced torsos could not snuggle against one another in their prison. Even so, during those long hours when they were alone in that opulent room, they could both hear and feel each other’s hearts beating in tandem beneath the pottery shell. And when they did, they would mouth with their useless lips, the words ‘I love you!’ before puckering them in a kiss that could never be fulfilled.

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Written 23/12/18

[1] The Middle Eastern equivalent of Romeo and Juliet.

The Tale of the Christkind

The Tale of the Christkind

 

Preface

In German lore, the Christkind or Christmas Angel leaves presents under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The Christkind was originally introduced in the 16th century by religious reformer Martin Luther; Until then, it was always Saint Nicholas who brought gifts on Dec. 6. But as Protestants can’t have saints, Luther needed a new Christmas tradition for his followers. Luther wanted to move the gift-giving away from the Catholic holiday on Dec. 6. So he reinvented the tradition for Protestants by moving it to Christmas Eve and making the Christkind – really, the baby Jesus – the person who brought the gifts.

It was under the rule of the National Socialists that the image of today’s Christkind was ultimately anchored in the collective German mind. They built on Nuremberg’s tradition of producing tinsel angels, and in 1933, had a young girl in an angel costume open the city’s Christmas Market for the first time. After the second World War, Nuremberg’s tinsel angels became simply the Nuremberg Christkind, and the figures were sold nation-wide.[1]


My name is Kirsten Vogel and I am a normal, everyday, blonde hair, affianced, working German girl in her mid-twenties. Normal in every way that is, except one. For I have a secret. A terrible, traumatic secret. A secret that only my fiancé and I know anything about. That secret I shall now tell to you, if you will be so kind as to listen.

Six years ago I was eighteen. I had just finished school and was looking forward to university. I worked on the weekends in a supermarket and I lived with my mum and dad. I was just a normal, happy-go-lucky German teenager from the city of Bremen.

And then, it happened.

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I was just a normal, happy-go-lucky German teenager

I had been to the city centre to a nightclub with some girlfriends. As usual, at the end of the evening, I took a taxi back to my parents’ house. The driver was friendly. We chatted about the rail fares and he mentioned that he was a Werder fan. The night was cold as it was February and in my thin party dress I was chilled to the bone. He offered me a coffee from the flask on the seat beside him and I gratefully accepted. Within a minute my head started to spin and then my world went black.

I woke up sometime later. I can’t say exactly how long later, though I am sure it was no longer than twenty-four hours after I had been sat in that taxi. When I woke up however, I was in no taxi, nor in my own bedroom. Instead I was lain on a huge, four-poster bed with thick blankets covering me. When I opened my eyes I could see that the room in which I was in was huge also, and old. The wood pannelling and gothic windows suggested a castle of some antiquity. Confused I go up and walked to the window of tiny diamond panes. Outside were majestic gardens. This was no ordinary castle, but instead more a palace. But what was I doing there? What had happened? I walked over to the door but it was locked. Then, beside my bed I noticed a cord. ‘Pull for assistance’ read the notice. I pulled and waited.

A minute or so later I heard a key being turned in the lock and the great wooden door to that great wooden chamber opened. Through it walked a woman. She was dressed like a maid from the time of Bismarck, stiff black and white and a frilly cap perched atop her head. By her bone structure I guessed her not to be a German. When she spoke, this guess was confirmed. “Welcome Miss Vogel. I trust that you have slept well.” Her German was heavily accented. Some accent from the East, Czech or Polish perhaps? I confirmed that I had slept well and asked her where I was. “Miss, I cannot tell you anything at this time. Partly because I am not allowed to and partly because I do not know fully myself. However, I have been instructed to prepare you.”

Prepare me? Prepare me for what? I asked her both of those questions.

“To dress you, Miss,” she said by way of an explanation.

I was not dressed at that time. When I had woken I had discovered, to by dismay, that I was wearing only my panties and a T-shirt. Why, I do not know.

“I am to dress you in this, Miss,” she said. She held up a garment. A white garment. It looked strange and I took it in my hands. It was a corset! A corset of white silk with bones running its length. How mysterious.

“I do not wear a corset” I said, noting for the first time that she did.

“I have been instructed to make you wear it,” she replied.

“But I am not going to wear it,” I countered.

“Fair enough,” said she, and then she made to leave.

“Wait a moment!” I said. “Where are you going? I need you to tell me some things. Where are my clothes? Why am I here? I am hungry too! Where is here? I need to know!”

“Miss Vogel. I can tell you nothing and give you nothing until you are dressed. And you said that you will not be dressed, so therefore I have no work to do here.”

“What? Do you mean, until I am clad in that corset, I can learn nothing?”

“Yes Miss. Nor go anywhere. I have been instructed not to let you out of this room until you are wearing your stays.”

“What if I force my way past you?” I asked.

“You cannot, Miss. Look!” I walked with her to the door. In the doorway, standing with his arms folded was a very burly-looking man, also, I guessed, an East European. “He will stop you,” the maid explained.

I decided to be a fighter. “Fair enough,” I said. “You may go.”

And so, she went.

Ten hours later my resolve gave way. My stomach ached with hunger and I was tired of pacing around that infernal room. It contained nothing save the bed, the table besides the bed and four huge wardrobes that filled one wall. I tried the wardrobes but they were all locked shut. Frustrated and at the end of my tether, I rang the bell and the maid came again. “Are you ready now?” asked she. Dejectedly, I nodded to confirm that I was. “Come this way,” she said, motioning with her hand. We walked to the wardrobe. “Now hold this knob,” she instructed. “It will help. I have been instructed to lace you to 64 cm. Your normal waist is 74cm so this will be a reduction of 10.” All this meant nothing to me. I took off the T-shirt and grasped the large wooden knob and she fastened the corset around me. I had often wondered when watching costume dramas what it would be like to wear such a garment. Now I would find out.

The maid noiselessly buttoned the busk and then started threading the laces. After a couple of minutes she started to pull. Immediately I felt my middle constricting. “Breathe out,” she instructed. I did so and the garment tightened more. Then she pulled again. The constriction began to felt dangerous. Breathing was becoming difficult and I began to be afraid.

“Stop! Stop!” I said. “It is suffocating me!”

“Nonsense, Miss, you are quite safe. Four more centimetres to go.” She pulled again and again. I began to feel light-headed.

“Stop!” I pleaded again. This time she did as I asked. She took out a tape-measure and circled my waist with it. “64cm,” she confirmed, very good.” She tied the laces off in a double knot. I clutched at my sides. They were as hard as rock. I made to sit down and then found that bending was impossible. “The corset forces you to keep your back straight, Miss,” she explained. I sat down keeping my back straight. It was easier. “One more thing,” continued the maid. She took out a belt of shiny bronze with filigree engravings and fastened it around my tiny new waist with a click.

“Why?” I asked.

“To prevent you from undoing your laces,” explained she. I tried to out. She was right! It was impossible to get to the knot that she had tied. This corset was locked on me!

“Now can you explain?” I asked.

“Yes certainly,” replied she. “Firstly, I shall introduce myself. My name is Božena. I come from Slovakia and I am your maid. Anything that you require, it is my job to provide.”

“Are we in Slovakia now?” I asked.

“No Miss,” she replied. “You are still in Germany. I do not know the name of this castle, nor its exact location, but we are somewhere in the South.”

“Why am I here?”

“Ms. Schmitz will explain that later.”

“Who brought me here?”

“Ms. Schmitz will explain that later.”

“Who is Ms. Schmitz?”

“Ms. Schmitz is your trainer. You shall meet her a fortnight from now. She is busy at the moment.”

“Trainer? Trainer in what?”

“That is for Ms. Schmitz to explain. All I know is that by the time that you meet her, you waist must be no larger than 60cm.”

“Why am I being forced to wear a corset?”

“Again, that is for Ms. Schmitz to explain.”

It was obvious that I would not be getting far with Božena, so I left it at that and returned to more pressing matters. “Can I have something to eat, please?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “I shall bring it to you now.”

She left the room and returned a minute later carrying a tray. On it was a small salad, a couple of slices of bread and a glass of orange juice. I tucked into it ravenously. It was good but I soon felt full. I realised that the corset prevented me from eating a lot as it squeezed my stomach into nothing. ‘At least I won’t be getting fat,’ I thought.

When I had finished I turned once again to the Slovakian. “Can I go out of the room now?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said she. “Now dressed you have complete freedom of the castle and grounds.”

I realised however, that clad in only a corset and panties, I could not go very far. “Do you have any clothes for me to wear?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Božena. She went over to the first of the wardrobes and unlocked it. “Take your pick,” she continued. “All these clothes are for your use. I shall go now as you do not need me to help you dress in these. Please feel free to go wherever you want. If you go out of this room and turn left and then take the first door on your left, you will find that it leads to a balcony. There is a nice view from there. If you wish to get to the grounds, then continue down the corridor that runs past this room, descend the stairs and then turn left. Goodbye Miss Vogel.”

“Goodbye Božena.”

She left once more.

I looked in the wardrobe. It was absolutely full of clothes. Fashionable, modern clothes. Jeans, blouses, T-shirts, tops. You name it, they were there. I selected a pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater. I then picked out a thick coat with a fur hood, figuring that it looked mighty cold out there. I then looked for some footwear. There were about twenty different pairs of shoes and boots in a variety of styles. Strangely however, all had heels of about five cm. I never normally wore heels, except for special occasions that was, and I felt strange putting them on. I selected a pair of thick, ankle-length boots and put them on. Thus dressed, I then walked out of the room.

The East European heavy was not there. No one was there. I did as Božena suggested and took the first left. As she had said it would, it led out onto a balcony. I walked out onto the balcony and the cold winter air chilled my bones. It did indeed command a fine view. The gardens of this castle were magnificent, laid out in a symmetrical way with pruned box hedges and trees. In the distance I could see forest and mountains. We were indeed in the South. I heard a noise, human voices. I looked down and saw twelve figures doing exercises on the lawn. They were watched over by three other figures. One was the heavy who had been stood outside my room. Another was a similar burly Slav but the third was a women with blonde hair. She was shouting instructions and the exercising dozen were following them. All those exercising were female. I couldn’t be sure as they were several hundred metres away, but all looked East European, and all were corsetted. It was very strange. I decided to walk out to them and take a closer look.

christkind2

I walked out onto the balcony and the cold air chilled my bones

I remembered Božena’s instructions and walked back in to the corridor and then continued down it until I got to the staircase that she had mentioned. Walking down the stairs in my new corset and high heels proved to be a rather strange experience, my corset keeping me upright whilst the heels threw me forward and I must admit to being quite unsteady and clutching at the oak bannister for balance. Soon enough however, I was down and soon after that, I was out in the gardens.

A sharp wind whistled through the stalks of the lifeless flowers and the bare branches of the trees and I hugged myself as I strolled through those grounds. In summer I could imagine them to be spectacular when the blooms were out, but even in winter they had a sort of melancholy charm to them. I made my way to the lawn where that queer corsetted twelve had been practicing, but when I got there I found, to my surprise and dismay, that the place was deserted. They had obviously returned to wherever it was that they had come from.

Not only was that lawn deserted but indeed the entire place. I walked for kilometres, exploring every bit of those fine grounds, past the ornamental pond, through the box hedges, the orchard and the glasshouses, and not a soul was to be seen. The castle, when looked at from outside was a huge Gothic pile with Bavarian traits. I was now sure beyond all doubt that Božena had been telling the truth when she’d said that we were now in Southern Germany.

But where in Southern Germany exactly?

After about an hour evening started to draw in so I returned to my room and pulled the cord. Božena appeared with dinner, again light and yet again quite filling. She then left and I settled down in my huge bed for the night.

Have you ever worn, or had to wear, a corset? It is a most curious experience and in some ways quite pleasant and even erotic. At night however, (and to my astonishment, the Slovakian had said that I was to wear it through the night as well as the day), it is simply plain annoying. That first evening I slept perhaps two or three hours at most. All through the dark hours it nagged and irritated me, restricting my breath and making lying down somewhat uncomfortable. Later on things improved somewhat, but that was much later. For the first month or so, sleeping was nothing more than an irritating, uncomfortable yet necessary chore.

For the first month I said. Yes indeed, for my stay in that castle was not a short one. But… I am getting ahead of myself. Instead of months, let us talk instead of weeks and in particular those first two weeks before I met the fabled Ms. Schmitz. After that first day things followed a definite routine. Every morning I was woken by Božena at nine, unlaced from my corset and taken to the bathroom which was across the corridor and was always waiting, steaming hot, for me. After a soak of thirty minutes or so, I returned to the bedroom and was laced up for the day by the maid before being served breakfast. Then, I was left alone until twelve. I spent the time wandering about the castle and grounds.

Although the Slovakian had said that I had free run of the castle, I soon learnt that that statement was not entirely true. Day after day did I explore that place and try countless doors, almost all of which were locked. On occasions I heard the sounds of human voices behind the doors, but never did I see another soul save my maid. I never saw the corsetted, exercising girls either, or the musclemen that guarded them. Instead it was just me. On the second I discovered that one of the great old doors opened into a library with literally thousands of books. After that I spent most of my time in their reading the great classics of world literature.

On the fifth day of my stay however, something of great note happened which I shall now relate. That day was a little brighter than most and so after lunch at twelve I decided to go out for a stroll. I was walking by the glasshouses when, to my astonishment, around the corner came someone else and we very nearly bumped into one another.

It was a boy.

A boy almost the same age as myself.

“Hello,” I said, as I related before, most surprised.

“Hello,” replied he, also surprised. He smiled. “My name is Dieter,” he continued. “I’d shake your hand of course, but as you can see, I can’t.”

I looked at him. I clearly could see. He was dressed in a thick coat like mine, but unlike me, he didn’t appear to have any arms!

“Don’t you have any arms?” I asked, rather stupidly.

“Oh no,” replied this Dieter, “I have them alright, but I can’t use them. Undo my coat and take a look for yourself.”

I did as he suggested. Underneath that coat he did indeed have arms, but they were folded behind his back and kept in that position by a tightly laced and locked leather sleeve. “But… why…?” I asked, now even more astonished.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” he said. “But they insisted on it.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“Them that run this place.”

“Don’t you know who they are either?”

“Nope.”

That conversation having run itself out, we stood there in silence. Then realising how rude I’d been, I introduced myself. “My name is Kirsten,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “Everyone here knows about you.”

“Do they?” The astonishment kept on growing.

“Yes, they do,” he confirmed. “It’s awful how they just abducted you like that, but what can you do?”

“Weren’t you abducted?” I asked.

“No. I signed up for this.”

“Signed up!?”

“Yes, signed up, though I didn’t know fully what I was getting myself into at the time.”

“Can you tell me about it?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. And so he told me everything.

His name was Dieter Müller and he was a second-year art student at the University of Bonn. He enjoyed university and was good at what he did, but alas, money was always a problem. Then he saw an advert in the university paper.

STUDENT NEEDED. DO YOU FANCY WORKING IN BAVARIA, LEARNING NEW SKILLS AND HELPING TO CREATE WORKS OF ART. APPLY AT THE NUMBER BELOW. GENEROUS RENUMERATION.

At the time he fancied working anywhere in any way for generous renumeration, and so he applied. He was given an interview by a middle-aged man in a grey suit in an office in the centre of town. The man said that the job would require him to take a year and a half out of university, but paid 200,000 euros and provided free accommodation. Holidays were also generous. At such an incredible sum, Dieter naturally agreed. He was told to wait as they had hundreds of other applicants. He waited and six weeks later, received a phone call. He was the man that they wanted the voice on the end of the line said and would he come back to that office at twelve noon the following day.

He went to the office and the same man wearing the same grey suit explained it all to him. The position was an unusual one. He would be required to live on site, a castle in Bavaria. All his clothes, meals and accommodation would be provided, but there were two catches. The first was that he could tell no one, not even his family what he was really doing and where he was. And the second…

The enterprise, the man had said, was connected to the fetish community. His job, he was told, would be to help train fetish models from Eastern Europe. He himself would not be subject to any restrictions or punishments, save that he would not be allowed the use of his hands. A single sleeve, identical to the one that he now wore, was then produced. ‘You will be wearing one of these at all times,’ the man had said.

All this of course sounded rather strange, but Dieter had always had a taste for adventure and inklings towards the fetish world. Training models sounded quite intriguing and exciting besides. ‘Will there be any chance to…?’ he had started to enquire. ‘Plenty,’ the man had confirmed. He had signed up straight away and told his parents that he was going backpacking to South East Asia for a year.

At the end of the university term he had returned to that office for a third time and the same man clad in the same suit had given him a coffee to drink. Then, like myself, he had passed out and woken up some time later on a bed in the castle. His arms had been encased in the sleeve when he woke. That was six months ago and he had not left the castle since. His every need was attended to him by a maid, a Slovakian named Eva who fed, washed and dressed him. Then, everyday he was sent to work with the models. Of these models there were twelve in total. All were, like the maids and bodyguards, from Slovakia, and all were incredibly beautiful. In the mornings he helped the Mistress, the fabled Ms. Schmitz, teach them German and in the afternoons, he taught them other stuff.

“What other stuff?” I asked.

“Well…” He was apprehensive. “They are learning to be fetish models as I said before, so I help them in various ways. I judge their appearances and help with technique…”

“Sexual technique…?”

“Well, erm…”

“Go on…”

“Well, yes. That’s my job. They give me blowjobs and such like and I instruct them on how to do it better. I also give them normal… and anal sex.”

“So basically, you’re paid to fuck beautiful women?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it so bluntly as that, but… yes.”

“Bet that’s like a dream come true, eh?”

“It is rather.”

I looked at him. He was well-built and healthy and his bone structure was good. He had wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He was really quite handsome. I could see why they’d chosen him.

“Tell me more about these girls,” I said. “I saw them once, doing aerobics on the lawn.”

“They’re all from Slovakia as I said before, and they’re all between 18 and 25. They came here of their own accord. They knew full well what they were getting themselves into. Some of them were prostitutes before, I’m sure, but most were just normal girls. ‘They’ promised them German passports and 50,000 euros each if they come here for training for eighteen months and then complete a year of service in the house of some pervert. I train them all, except one. Her Master is apparently going to be no Master, but a Mistress, so Ms. Schmitz trains her in technique. She prefers it that way anyway. She is a lesbian.”

“So am I the only one here who was brought by force then?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“But why? Where do I fit into all of this? What do I have to do with a fetish ring?”

“Kirsten, I don’t know, honestly. They told me nothing about you, save that the Angel had arrived and that her name was Kirsten Vogel, that she was 18, pretty, and that they were sure I should get to meet you soon.”

“The Angel…?”

“Don’t ask me, I’ve as much idea as you have.”

So I didn’t ask. Instead we just walked around the grounds together and arranged to meet up in the library the following day at six. From that day on we met up in the library at six everyday. I got to like Dieter. He was zany and funny. I should have liked to have seen some of his art. I began to look forward to our time together. Other than that though, life followed its same easy, boring routine. At the end of the first week, Božena tightened my corset up another 2cm and on the fourteenth day she reduced two more. “You shall meet Ms. Schmitz today,” the maid had said that morning. She is coming here after lunch.

And true to form, at one o’clock, after I had finished my omelette and salad and Božena had departed, the door opened and the long-awaited Ms. Schmitz walked into my room.

In all my life, I can truly say that I have never seen anyone who looked even close to what my Ms. Schmitz looked like. She was a medium-sized woman of, I would imagine, around thirty-five years of age, with long blonde hair and large blue eyes. It was what she wore however, that caught my attention. On her two feet were tight, knee-high, leather boots, laced to the utmost like a corset and with incredible heels of at least 15cm that caused her to stand on the very tips of her toes like a ballet dancer. Around her hips she wore a skirt of ruffled black satin. Above that was a corset, longer and more fearsome than my own, like the boots, also of black leather and laced tightly. Under the corset she wore a white blouse, and around her neck some sort of incredible collar of leather, laced like a corset and easily 12cm in height, so that it forced her chin up and her neck into a solid black tube! She was incredible, like a living doll. And her waist! It was so tightly laced and I was sure that my two hands could circle it entirely.

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She was incredible, like a living doll. And her waist! It was so tightly laced and I was sure that my two hands could circle it entirely

“Miss Vogel, good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Ms. Schmitz. I am to be your trainer. Before we start however, I must make something very clear. You have been kidnapped.”

I was surprised that she was so open and blatant about it.

“Sit down please.”

I did as she bid.

“Now, look at these photographs. Do you recognise any of the people in them?”

I looked. There were twelve in all. All bar one showed men, middle-aged men, plump and self-confident. Most of the faces I did not recognise, but three of them were familiar. “This one,” I said, pointing at the fourth of the images, “I know this face. He’s in the government isn’t he? The Foreign Minister perhaps? And this one here. I’ve seen him in the papers although I don’t know who he is. Some businessman I think? And this one… Isn’t he in parliament too?”

“Miss Vogel, you are entirely correct on all counts. That man there is indeed in the government, and yes, he currently holds the position of Foreign Minister. He is the most powerful person in the SDP in fact, even more so than the Chancellor, although he keeps that latter fact quiet. And yes, that man there is also in the government, in the Opposition. He is one of the most senior figures in the Christian Democrats. Some have tipped him to be the next Chancellor. And the man that you said that you recognised from the papers. He is indeed a businessman. The head of AGPA, the manufacturers of magnetic film, Germany’s largest corporation. Those are the ones that you know, now here are the ones that you didn’t.” She then proceeded to list what sounded like a role call of the most important people in the Republic. There was the director of the car company BMV, the owner of a major Bundesliga club and the country’s largest gambling concern, a dairy magnate from the former Democratic Republic who had been a member of the politburo over a decade ago, the director of the largest pharmaceutical concern in the land, a major figure from the police, the Chairman of the country’s largest bank, the leader of the Green Party, the director of the airline Luftkanza, a notable General and an Admiral of the Fleet.

“These people, Miss Vogel, are the people that kidnapped you. Why do I tell you this? Why do I give you the names of those who have committed such a heinous crime against your liberty you think? Look at them. You can see how powerful they are. These people are the people that run Germany. Without them, our fair nation would crumble into dust. You can accuse all you like but they shall never be brought to justice. I tell you all of this so that you can get such ideas out of your mind. Do you understand?”

I was shocked, stunned. They were so important, so influential. Pillars of the Community. I couldn’t take it all in. I stayed silent. The corsetted woman continued.

“Miss Vogel. These people have kidnapped you for a purpose. They need you to perform a task for them. A very great task. A task that you will probably find distasteful and yet will fulfill nonetheless. And a task that will require a certain amount of training before you can complete it. That, Miss, is where I come in. My job is to train you.”

Task? Train? What?

“How do you know that, if I find it distasteful, I shall fulfill it nonetheless?” I asked.

“Because twenty years ago my dear, I found it distasteful and fulfilled it,” replied she.

Twenty years ago? But what was this task that she had fulfilled? Had this been going on for twenty years?

“Sit down Miss, and I shall explain further. Twenty years ago, like you, I was a normal German teenager. Then, one day, just like you, I woke up to find myself here in this castle. I went through what you have been through and what you will go through. I was trained in a tradition that dates all the way back to 1936 when certain members of the National Socialist Party formed the Council of Twelve, the modern-day council being the people in the photographs that I have just shown you. This twelve, ever since ’36 have run Germany. Through war and peace, good times and bad, they have steered the ship. They are, as it were, our unofficial government. However, there is also a darker side to their activities, and that darker side I am afraid Miss Vogel, is what you are going to have to discover.

As I said before, they have kidnapped you for a purpose. However, before you can do what they want you to do, I have to train you. When I was kidnapped, I had a body much like yours. Eight months later, I looked much the same, albeit younger and prettier, as I do now. Eight months from now, your body shall look like mine.”

I gazed at her astonishing curves and minute waist and my heart was filled with terror.

“Eight months from now, Miss Vogel, you shall be wearing this.” Then, from underneath the chair, she pulled out a black leather corset. I stared at it in disbelief. The corset was fearsome. It maintained its shape without anyone inside it and the waist was as minute as that of the lady who held it in her hand.

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The corset was fearsome. It maintained its shape without anyone inside it and the waist was as minute as that of the lady who held it in her hand

“But how shall I ever fit inside that?” I asked in disbelief.

“With my training you shall,” replied the living doll.

Then something inside of me snapped. “No! No! No! Get away from me! You freak! You’re a freak and you’re not coming near me! Go! Go! Goooo!!!”

But of course it was not good and I knew it. My position was hopeless. Within a minute I had burst into tears and the strange lady had her arms around me and was comforting me as best she could. “I know it’s hard my dear, I know. I have been there myself. I remember it like it was yesterday. But this is the cross that we have to bear my angel. Be brave and you shall see it through. Trust me and work with me and everything will be alright.”

She dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. “Why me?” I asked.

“There is no particular reason,” said she. “They picked you and that is that.”

“Will they hurt me?”

“Not if you play their game. If you play, instead of hurting, they will reward you.”

“What is their ‘game’?” I was recovering by this time.

“They want you to play a special role, in a play as it were. They want you to become something.”

“And I have to wear that corset to play the role I suppose?”

“Indeed, and more besides. Tomorrow we shall start the training and you shall be fitted with more than just a new corset.”

“Will I be made to wear all that you are wearing? The collar, boots and  so on?”

“The collar, no, but the boots, yes. And other things besides. I shall introduce them all to you in due course.”

“Playing this role. Will I be required to… have sex like those Slovakian girls do?”

“I can see that you have been talking to young Dieter. First of all, let me tell you, you are not like those Slovakian girls. Your role is a very different one to theirs. However, as for the having sex… you shall not be forced to do so, but… it will be an option. An option that you will be strongly urged to take.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then you refuse. Do you have anymore questions?”

“No. Except… when I’m training… will Dieter be a part?”

“Sometimes, yes, if you wish. Now, I have to leave. Tell Božena that I am most pleased to see that she has got you down to the required 60cm. I shall see you tomorrow at nine when we commence our training. Goodbye Miss Vogel.”

“Goodbye Ms. Schmitz.”

And her high-heeled boots clip-clapped out of the room.

The following morning at nine, as promised, she was there. Her outfit was the same as the preceding day save that this time she wore no blouse, long leather gloves, and a pink mini-skirt. She let Božena take me for a bath and was stood waiting when I returned fresh and clean. Beside her was something new that workmen had obviously installed whilst I had been soaking. It hung from the ceiling and looked like a circus trapeze.

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Her outfit was the same as the preceding day save that this time she wore no blouse, long leather gloves, and a pink mini-skirt.

“Meet your new best friend, Miss Vogel,” said the living doll. “This is a lacing bar. Come over to it and place your hands here.” I walked over to the contraption and grabbed hold of the bar. There were two leather loops attached to it and my wrists were secured in these. Then, using some sort of remote control device, she caused the thing to rise up slowly until only the tips of my toes touched the floor. “For truly effective lacing,” she explained, “a lacing bar is essential. The waist, when stretched, can be laced far smaller than using normal methods. However, before we start talking about corsets, I must fix you with the first of your new items of apparel.”

She walked over to the second wardrobe which had hitherto always been locked and opened it. Out of it she took a white box. She walked back over to me and opened the box. Inside were a pair of shiny stainless steel underpants. “A chastity belt,” she explained. “Mandatory from now on. I am sorry Miss Vogel, but they do not like you either having sex with unauthorised men and women or pleasuring yourself.”

“I do not pleasure myself!” I retorted, outraged at such a suggestion.

“Then this will be no burden for you then,” replied she.

She clicked the belt around my private parts and tightened it until it was snug.

“It is perfectly hygienic,” she continued, “and you shall have no problem using the toilet with it on. Now, the blouse and corset.”

She walked back over to that second wardrobe and brought out a white blouse identical to the one that she had worn the previous day and ominously, a black leather corset. She fitted the blouse onto me from behind and I discovered, to my surprise, that the sleeves were specially designed so that they could be fitted whilst one was attached to the lacing bar by having zips along their entire length. When that was done, she then got out the corset which was longer and heavier than my previous stays but nonetheless, still nothing compared to those that she wore.

“This corset shall bring you down to 50cm,” she said. 50cm! I couldn’t believe it. I already felt incredibly constricted at 60. How was I to cope. “Unfortunately for you, you will find these stays much more difficult to wear than your previous corset. It is the length you see. And the fact that they ensure a conical shape such as I sport at the moment. A conical shape is far more difficult to achieve than a wasp waist. Do you have any questions, Miss Vogel?”

I shook my head.

“Then we shall begin. Karel, come in please!”

The door opened and the Slovakian heavy walked in, up to me and then behind me. He then grasped my laces and started to pull. Immediately the constriction was incredible as, like she said, the length was greater and my breast and pelvis were forced into an unnatural shape as well as my waist. I groaned but nonetheless he continued to pull. I began to feel dizzy and started to beg him to stop. However he heeded not and carried on pulling. He pulled once more and the dizziness increased. Then my world went black.

I was revived by a pungent spell. “These are smelling salts,” said the voice of Ms. Schmitz. “In the old days ladies used them when lacing.” I however, cared not.

“It’s too tight! It’s too tight!” I cried.

“Nonsense, my dear. Listen, you’ve done very well. You’re down to sixty already with only one fainting and you didn’t complain half as much as some of the girls that I’ve had to train.”

“Sixty! But wasn’t that my measurement before? This feels so much tighter!”

“I know it does. It’s the design as I said before, the conical shape. You see, this type of corset is called the ‘S-Kurve’ or, in French, the ‘droit devant’ It is named so because the lady who is wearing it is given a figure whereby the waist is pushed forward so that a straight front results. Below the navel, the lower front of the corset is curved backwards, so that the lady is forced to move her buttocks outward. Furthermore, it also holds the shoulders backwards, which make the breasts more pronounced. This makes this corset line even more attractive and indeed some men are particularly fond of the accentuated backside.”

All these explanations sounded so scientific… and kinky. I said nothing and let her continue.

“The history of this type of corset is actually quite interesting. Initially the straight front corset was introduced to make it easier for women to wear a corset, in practice, this shape causes a very severe impact on the spine, which is forced to be sharply curved inwards at the waist. Therefore, the training to obtain this shape is very demanding and often painful in the back.”

“It bends my spine! But surely that is dangerous? Please, Ms. Shmitz, take it off me! I don’t want to end up deformed!”

“Fear not Miss Vogel, we are not aiming to deform your body here. Worn over long periods, then yes, you would end up deformed, but you shall be alright. After all, unless you choose otherwise, you shall be wearing S-Kurve corsets for less than a year.”

This woman, if nothing else, certainly knew her stuff. “Tell me more about how this S-Kurve works, please,” I asked.

“Certainly. Well you see, how it differs from the normal wasp waist corset, such as the white one that you were wearing before, is that in a wasp-waist the spine keeps its original shape, and the support to the body is achieved by the collaboration of the muscles and the corset around the spine. You are constricted, yes, but the spine can still do its job.  In the case of the S-Kurve, however, the support to the upper body must be provided entirely by the corset, because the spine, in its deformed shape, can not contribute anymore, and the muscles cannot do too much without a spine.  Consequently, the shape of the corset must be perfect and the corset must be sufficiently stiff as well. And as you can see, this corset is perfect in shape and sufficiently stiff.”

Although I was beginning to accustom myself to the tightness, I still knew full well that what she was saying was entirely true. “How come it is so stiff?” I asked, fascinated with the science behind this new and dreadful part of my life.

“Well, it is made of 1.6 mm thick leather, and has three 1.6 mm thick steel front stays, and 0.6 mm thick stays at all other locations. Just for information: the 1.6 mm stays are 19 times stiffer than the 0.6 mm ones.

The 1.6 mm stays come from the orthopedic industry. They are bent and distorted to give the corset the overall shape that is prescribed by the shape of the individual pieces. The corset has leather lining on the location of the stays and fabric lining at all other places. It is all-in-all, a formidable garment. All the corsets that you will be wearing from now on will be constructed in the same manner, including the final one which I showed you yesterday. All that differs in them is the waist size. This one will, as I said before, bring you down to 50cm. Once that target is achieved you shall be broken into your next one.”

“And what will that bring me down to?”

“43cm.”

43cm! It was unbelievable, impossible! “And that is not final?” I asked.

“No, that is not final. Once at 43cm you will be broken into the stays that I showed to you yesterday.”

“And they will bring me down to…?”

“They will bring you down 38cm.”

38cm! I tried to imagine such a size in my head. It sounded minute.

As if reading my thoughts, Ms. Schmitz said, “If you want to know what 38cm will look like, look at my waist.”

Look at her waist! She had no waist! And I too would be in the same boat! I was filled with terror… and… an inexplicable sense of excitement. “Will you let me down from this trapeze now, please?” I asked. “My arms are beginning to ache.”

“No, not quite yet Miss Vogel,” replied the woman with the 38cm waist. “I have something else to fit first.”

She walked back over to that second wardrobe and came back holding two items of black leather. They were instantly recognisable as boots. Boots with incredibly high heels.

“Your first pair of proper boots, my dear. From now on, these, like your corset, will be a mandatory part of your daily attire.” She picked up my left leg and started to fit the first boot. It took a long time as the thing reached up to my knee and was laced throughout its entire length. Once laced tight my lower leg felt rigid and solid. There was no bend in the ankle at all. Worse than that however, my foot was forced down into an unnatural angle.

“How high are these heels?” I asked as she started the fit the right-hand boot.

“8cm,” replied she.

“But how can I walk in such footwear?” I protested.

“You shall learn,” was all that she replied.

Once both were fitted I was declared ready to be lowered from the lacing bar. Ms. Schmitz picked up her remote and warned as she pressed the button, “Be careful Miss Vogel, the constriction will increase on both your feet and around your waist as soon as your weight is transferred to the floor.”

She was not wrong either! As soon as that weight was transferred, I wished immediately to be back up in the air. The pressure was incredible and I would have fallen had my wrists not still been attached to the bar. Quickly and professionally, Ms. Schmitz unlocked the cuffs and then took two broad straps from the back of the corset and fastened them over my shoulders. This latest trammellation was not at all pleasant and it seemed to restrict my breathing even further, but I said naught. Then, my trainer led me over to my bed and laid me on my back on it. This made things easier, but even so, I still found breathing almost impossible. The problem was that my muscles, squeezed and entrapped as they were, would not work. I mentioned this to her.

“Don’t worry my dear, this is normal,” she replied. “Let me explain how it all works fully. The tiny upper body of this corset makes your breathing like that of the ladies in the nineteenth century and thus you have to get used to this technique of breathing, which solely takes place from the upper part of the chest. Diaphragm breathing, that is in the normal fashion, using the lower muscles is stopped almost entirely. Now, not only is your diaphragm breathing stopped, but you shall also notice that it is now absolutely impossible for you to bend your body. Of course, wearing your white corset, the bending was much restricted, but the S-Kurve stops it entirely. In fact what happens is that your body has the same whether you are lying, sitting or standing.”

I looked at her stood erect over me and realised that yes, her body shape was exactly the same as mine was lain on the bed. “But how can I sit in this thing of I cannot bend?” I asked, confused.

“Learning to sit is something that will come later in your training and, believe me, it is not that easy to do, but basically, what happens is that you must learn to do all the movement with your legs and hips. You do not sit as it were, but more perch. Look.” She then demonstrated, sitting, or, as she said, more ‘perching’ on the edge of the bed. I noticed that the body shape, as she had said, stayed exactly the same.

“What are the straps over my shoulders for?” I asked, having noticed that these latest additions irksomely pressed down on me at all times, even when lying.

“Well, the shoulder straps are their basically, to give you a more feminine appearance You see when the upper body is considerably compressed such as yours is now, the shoulders tend to go up, in order to give the lady more space to breath. Mother Nature helps out this way, but the view of risen shoulders above a tight corset, is not particularly beautiful. The neck looks shorter, and the entire figure looks less ladylike.

Thus, it is that we have shoulder straps to hold the shoulders down and backwards. They are not comfortable to wear, I know, but it is just a matter of getting used to them.

When you wear your corsets, the shoulders straps are on all the time. However, sleeping with the shoulder straps in the ‘day’ is quite impossible, and thus they shall be loosened during the night.”

That concession to comfort hardly gave me any piece of mind. I had sort-of guessed that I would be wearing this new torture instrument through the night as well as the day, but the confirmation of it still sent shudders down my spine, (or at least, what was left of that spine).

“Would you like to see how you look now?”

I nodded ascent and held out my arms so that she could pull me up as I could not rise unassisted myself. Then together, I holding her gloved hands firmly for balance we walked, or perhaps I should say ‘tottered’ out of the bedroom and into the bathroom next door where there was a full-length mirror. Walking in this new and fearsome attire was indeed a strange experience. The corset and shoulder straps held my body completely erect whilst the high-heeled boots threw my body forward and caused my steps to be most unsteady. I indeed stumbled several times on that short journey and would have fallen had not Ms. Schmitz been there to save me. What was also strange about walking in my new and trammelled state, was how quickly I got out-of-breath. Even the smallest movement now seemed to take all of my energy and due to being forced to breathe entirely using my upper body, my breasts, though not large, appeared now almost huge and rose and fell at an astonishing rate.

When we got to that mirror however, I can honestly say that it was all worth it. Well… perhaps. As I gazed at the fantastic womanly figure stood facing me clad in black leather, I had to blink twice before I realised that it was me. I looked stunning, a world away from the average, ordinary, everyday Bremen student that I was accustomed to seeing every morning in the mirror.

“Impressive, eh?” said my trainer.

I nodded, unable to form any words, so out-of-breath was I.

I turned around and noticed that my bottom now protruded out on quite an accentuated manner. Knowing how men get excited about the female backside, this made me feel incredibly sexy.

“Most ladies would not like the idea of being encapsulated like this,” I heard my trainer say, “But some people are different, and a few people just love it! It is just a matter of personal taste. Looking at you, I am wondering if I have found one of the few…?”

I said nothing. I was still extremely angry at how I had been brought to that place against my will and forced into those ridiculous clothes. And yet… yet something about them did excite me.

“Let’s get back to the bedroom,” said Ms. Schmitz.

I spent the rest of that day lying on my back on the bed. Ms. Schmitz said that I would need a few more days to get used to my new attire and she was right. Just the simple act of breathing was difficult enough. The only change came when I needed to use the toilet. Then I shuffled over to the edge of the bed and rang for Božena who helped me to the bathroom. She also came in several hours later with dinner, only a salad and yet more than enough to fill me entirely. The new corset allowed virtually no room at all for food.

The following day was the same, and the day after that. I lay on my bed all morning after breakfast until lunch and then at one Ms. Schmitz would come in and we would walk around the room together. Then I would lie on my back until dinnertime and then again until morning. At night I got virtually no sleep on that first night, but gradually the situation improved until by the end of my first week in the S-Kurve I was managing about five hours per night.

Worse than the lack of sleep however, was the loneliness and boredom. There was no chance of meeting up with Dieter in the library and I had no books to read. I longed to be able to walk in the beautiful ground as I had done during my days in the white satin corset. On the third day I asked my trainer if we could go outside. I was not pleased with the answer that I received.

“No. Categorically, no. Or at least, not until I am satisfied that you have reached a sufficient point in your training.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, most confused.

“When I have seen that you can walk, unassisted, in a ladylike manner in your new corset, then you will not be allowed outside, or indeed beyond here and the bathroom.”

“So when do we begin training then?” I asked.

“If you feel ready, then now,” replied she.

“I feel ready,” said I.

And so we began, although I wished that we hadn’t for it was tedious and irksome stuff indeed. For hour after hour did Ms. Schmitz have me walk around that room, showing me how to place my feet, move my hips, keep my head upright and much more. For three days did we do that and at the end of each day I was exhausted. Then, on the fourth day, I was allowed to walk up and down the corridor. After two days of that she declared herself delighted with my progress.

“So can I go outside now?” I asked.

“No, Miss Vogel, you are still not ready. However, I may be able to grant some other wish that you might have…”

I thought. “Well, I am rather bored when you are not here. Could I have some books brought to me from the library?”

“Certainly. Just tell Božena which ones you want and she shall bring them to you.”

“And… well… I am rather lonely here too. Would it be possible for someone to visit me in the evenings for a chat and to give me some company?”

“Anyone in particular…?”

“Well… perhaps Dieter if he is not too busy with the Slovakians…?”

“I thought as much. I think you’ve got a crush on our armless servant, Miss Vogel.”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that. It’s purely platonic and I just fancy some company, that’s all.”

Whatever you say, whatever you say…”

“Well, can he come?”

“Of course, I’ll send him over after dinner.”

“My, Kirsten! You look hot!”

“Are you sure? After all, how can I compare to all those gorgeous Slovakian fetish models?”

He was silent for a moment. “That’s just work, Kirsten,” he said.

I don’t know why, but I was feeling cantankerous. Perhaps it was the corset sapping all my energy and restricting my movements? Or perhaps not. As I said, I don’t know. “So, do you mean to say that you don’t enjoy it when they suck you off? Or perhaps they haven’t serviced you today and you’re feeling on edge?”

“Look Kirsten, I didn’t come here to be abused. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again these past few day and now all you do is abuse me. I’m off.”

He stood up and made to go. “No! No! Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It’s just that well…” I never finished that sentence. As I told you before, I didn’t know why I was feeling that way.

“Ok, ok,” he said, sitting down again. “I guess you’ve been through a lot. And that thing, and those boots must be awfully difficult to wear. I’m sorry too.”

We sat in silence for a minute or so.

“You’ve met Ms. Schmitz then,” he said eventually. “What do you think of her?”

I told him what I thought, and of all my experiences over the past week. I told him about the lacing and the walking, the inability to sleep or eat properly, or even to bend and sit without assistance. After I’d told him all that I began to cry and he comforted me. I would have loved him to hold me in his arms, but naturally, that was not possible, so instead I buried my face in his chest and sobbed, “What’s going on? What’s all this about? Why is this happening to me?” Of course, he had no answers to my questions, but the crying made me feel better, and after I had finished we talked about the books that we had read and of paintings that we liked. He then assured me that, once Ms. Schmitz allowed me to, he would go on long walks with me around the castle grounds. It was 10pm by the time he left and that evening I felt like I had some quality of life again and I slept better than I had done since arriving at that place. Perhaps Ms. Schmitz had been right when she had said that I had developed a crush on Dieter.

Perhaps.

My life then developed into a strict routine that lasted for several months, until Spring was in full flow in fact. Daily I would be taught in deportment by Ms. Schmitz. My progress was excruciatingly slow but I did progress. Two days after meeting for Dieter again, I was allowed to attempt the staircase. This was especially difficult as my pushed-up bosom made seeing where I was going an impossibility and my high-heeled boots, finding the steps hard, but slowly I managed to walk up and down them, a first just walk and then to do so gracefully. After that it was sitting, another previously simple task made difficult by my new attire, and like the walking and the stairs, first I learnt how to sit and then how to do so elegantly. All the while, my corset kept on being reduced until by the onset of April I was at 53cm and by the middle of that month, Ms. Schmitz started talking about breaking me into the next pair of stays, the pair that would bring me down to an incredibly small 43cm. And then after that… still an incredible five more to go! In the meantime, outside of training time, I lived a relaxed and ordered life. In the mornings I read books from the library and lazed about in my room and the evenings I spent with Dieter, sitting and talking or strolling around in those fantastic gardens.

When I was eventually allowed to go outside I soon realised why Ms. Schmitz had been so strong in insisting that I did not do so until I was ready, for as I discovered on my first few steps in the fresh air, walking on gravel in high-heeled boots, is a far more difficult matter than on a wooden floor and had not Božena been with us to steady me, I would have fallen before I had walked ten metres. However, that, like everything else had a knack to it and it was a knack that I very soon learnt and after a month or two I found that I could stroll about on the gravel almost as easily as I could do indoors, although of course, with my limited breathing and small steps, I could go nowhere near the distance that I had managed whilst virtually unfettered in my white corset. At the time I only longed to be released of the restrictions I then lived under. Little did I know what was to come.

It was Dieter however, that kept me going during those times. Ms. Schmitz, I must admit to liking in a strange kind of way, but she always remained somewhat distant from me as perhaps was only proper considering her position as my mentor and teacher. Dieter however was in the same (or at least a very similar) boat to me and we soon became fast friends if not more. I was careful not to mention the Slovakian girls to him for several months, but one evening in April I could not help myself and whilst we were walking by the ornamental pond I said to him, “Excuse me for mentioning this, Dieter, as I know you didn’t like it when I did so last time, but I want to know; with the Slovakian girls, what sort of well… relationships do you have with them?”

I almost regretted saying it as soon as I had opened my mouth, but I should have known better. “Physically or emotionally?” he asked.

“Both,” I replied.

“Well, physically, we’re intimate of course. It’s my job after all. We have sex, we lie together, they caress me and do the most amazing things to all parts of my body, things that I didn’t know that a woman could do. But that’s what they’re learning you see. They’re being sold as sex toys for a year long period, but not just any sex toys, but the very very best. They are learning how to pleasure a man so that he cannot take anymore, and I am their guinea pig.”

“And emotionally?”

“Emotionally, well, you probably won’t believe this but well, we’re as distant as can be. You see, the thing is, it’s my job and it’s their jobs and we’re all being well paid for it, but it is, stupid as this might sound, strictly professional, and so yes, we do every kid of kinky and sexual act under the sun, and yes, we all enjoy doing it I’m sure, but well, there’s no love in it. It’s just like going on a rollercoaster at a funfair. You love the act and it doesn’t matter who you sit beside.”

I wanted to say that in my mind there was a very big difference between riding a rollercoaster and riding a Slovakian sex slave, but I kept quiet.

“And besides,” he continued, “there are other types of distance between us as well. One is cultural. Their German is shaky at best and besides, they were brought up in a different society to that which we were brought up in. And I don’t just mean a Slovakia-Germany thing, but more, well… they chose, physically chose, to become sex toys, to screw unknown men for money, and well, that’s something that’s, well, hard to respect, don’t you think?”

“But you chose a job where you were required to screw unknown beautiful women,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s different…”

“How?”

“Well, because I’m a man.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well men, all men, and don’t let anyone tell you differently, whenever they speak to a woman, or at least a woman under forty, have only one thought at the back of their mind, and that is ‘I wonder what she would be like to fuck?’. It doesn’t mean they love them, it’s just, well… men have a need.”

“And is that what you thought when you first met me?”

“Well, you’re under forty aren’t you and, please take this as a compliment by the way, you are hot, particularly in the corset and boots and the way they make you walk.”

I smiled. I should have been angry at him for his impudence and chauvinism, but the truth was, well, I liked being told that I was sexy and what’s more, the only thought at the back of my mind was how much I would have liked to fuck him. Three and a half months without sexual satisfaction after all, takes its toll on a girl as well as a boy.

“Besides,” he continued, “going back to the Slovakians, I know that this sounds like a horrible thing to say, but at times I almost struggle to think of them as human. After all, they live more like animals.”

“What on Earth do you mean?”

“They sleep, not only laced into corsets, but these things called Venus Corsets, whereby they have their arms folded against the smalls of their backs and thus look as if they were born armless. And then they are laced into tight sleeping sacks which caused them to be deaf and blind as they have only three openings, for the mouth, nose and arse.”

“The arse! Why the arse?”

“So they can take a leak and when they do, it runs through tube into the mouth of the one lying next to them.”

“They drink each other’s piss! Urrgh! How gross!”

“And that’s not all. They spend every afternoon trussed up in some kind of extreme bondage; a hog-tie, or stretched out like a star on some frame, or weights hanging from their pierced nipples.”

“That’s terrible! How can they stand it?”

“I don’t know, but the thing is, they love it. Some of them, when they’re released for dinner even beg for more. As I said, they’re more like animals than humans and how can one form a close emotional relationship with people who beg to drink piss or be rendered immobile?”

I agreed entirely, it was just too weird. And yet… yet some of that stuff did sound quite exciting. Not the weights on the nipples or piss drinking, but being trussed up so…

And when I returned to my room I asked Božena to take me to the bathroom so I could see how I looked when I walked in my new, ladylike fashion.

And I felt quite proud when I saw how unbelievably sexy my new protruding bottom, swinging hips and heaving bosom appeared.

But anyway, to return to my tale, yes, I was beginning to form quite an attachment to Dieter and was at times rather jealous of those hog-tied, piss-drinking Slovakian fuck toys. But that is by the by, and now I shall proceed. As I said before, my life had entered into a sort-of routine, but on April the 29th all of that changed.

“Miss Vogel!” It was Ms. Schmitz and she was in my bedroom earlier than usual. “Today is a big day for you and I need to talk to you properly before we begin it. Today you see, I have decided to break you into your new corset and to enter into the third phase of your training. However, before I do so I must warn you that things will not be quite so easy from now on and you will have some decision-making to do first.”

Not so easy! And what exactly had been easy about the preceding few months I wondered. I was soon to learn of course.

“What decision-making?” I asked.

“I have a question to put to you and I need you to think carefully about the answer, for it is very important that you do. And that question, my dear, is, will you consider the possibility at all that you would be willing to sleep with another human being and enjoin in sexual intercourse with them as part of your role here? That is the question but before you answer it, let me tell you some details. First of all, it is not definite that you shall ever have to sleep with anyone. It is but a possibility, but it is one that you must consider. Secondly, if you consent now, it does not mean that you cannot refuse later on. Even if you think that there is only a one per cent chance of you saying yes, then you should consent now. I am asking this question purely for purposes of developing your training regime, that is all. Basically, the only girls who might refuse now – and not one has ever refused yet – is that you might be saving your virginity until marriage. And thirdly I perhaps should mention that when I say sex, I mean sex. I do not include violence or bondage in the question. You can forget Dieter’s tales of the Slovakians. As I said before, you are a different case entirely. Now, will you consider the possibility or not?”

I sat and thought. Of course I was initially disposed to say ‘No’ in the strongest of terms, but something held me back. Primarily, it was probably Ms. Schmitz’s insistence that to accept now did not necessarily mean that I would have to go through with the act later on, but also, there was something else. The fact is, as I said before, after almost four months without sex, I desperately wanted it. With whom and in what way I cared little, but to put it bluntly, I needed a shag. Looking back, I wonder if I had not had some sort of mild aphrodisiac put into my food and drink, but I cannot be sure. After all, wearing such clothes as I was wearing everyday, and living in such a weird and perverted manner was enough to make anyone horny. There was more than that though. Sexual training would inevitably require a man and which man could they choose but Dieter? And was there any man on Earth who I wanted to be with more than him? Of course there wasn’t.

“Yes,” I said tentatively.

“Good,” replied Ms. Schmitz. “And now that is sorted, let’s get you to the lacing bar and put this new corset on.” I did as she asked and was soon cuffed and hoisted in the air. Then, for the first time since my arrival, the third wardrobe was opened and my new corset brought out.

To be fair, the fitting of the new corset was a bit of a let down. I’d expected the experience to be difficult, but in fact, it felt just the same as my old one, since, after all it was the same, just smaller in the waist, though on that first fitting I was laced only to my normal 50cm. It was after the corset however, that the excitement started, for once fully laced and tied off, Ms. Schmitz went back to the third wardrobe and brought out the next items in my new, tougher stage of training.

They were boots. Long, knee-high leather boots, laced for their entire length. And they were high-heeled boots, but not 8cm heels like my previous pair. No, these were another matter entirely.

“15cm,” said my trainer by way of an explanation.

15cm! I almost fainted on the spot! The boots were levered on and laced with some difficulty and then I was lowered down. Walking in those new contraptions was a different matter entirely. I was forced almost onto my tiptoes and the pressure was incredible. I squealed with the pain and almost fell immediately. Eventually I recovered but found that my sexy, ladylike walk had disappeared and my movements were now reduced to an unwieldy totter. Like with the time before, Ms. Schmitz led me to the bed, but this time I perched, not lay. My trainer then went back to the wardrobe and brought out the next items of apparel.

They were gloves.

Not ordinary gloves, but thick, shiny gloves of black leather that reached up to the armpits and were laced for their entire length. I said nothing as she began to fit them. They were tight, incredibly so, but they were also very sexy. Once she’d laced them up I found that I could hardly bend at the wrist or elbow and my fingers were virtually immobile. My arms looked and moved like the arms of the Christmas fairy. And I felt unbelievably good about it. As you can probably guess, by now the perverted nature of that whole enterprise in the Bavarian castle was beginning to take its toll on me and I was actually looking forward in some respects to each further restriction.

In some respects that is.

Learning to walk in my new boots and use my arms whilst clad in those sexy gloves took two months. At first I was like a new-born babe and stumbled and fell with every step, but slowly I became accustomed to the new shape of my footwear and the way that they forced me to walk. The gloves were equally difficult. Even the simplest things, such as pulling the cord to summon Božena or holding my book in front of me were now difficult and acts such as holding a pencil were virtually impossible. I slowly had to learn not to rely on my arms as support when descending and ascending the stairs as if I did, nine times out of ten they would slip on the polished wooden bannister and I would tumble down and end up helpless and covered in bruises.

Progress was also being made with the corset, though the waist reduction came more slowly and with more difficulty than previously. Every time even a half-centimetre was taken off my waist I ended up fainting on the bar and being revived by the dreaded smelling salts whose smell haunts my nose still. Nonetheless, by the end of June my waist measured an incredible 45cm and looked something else.

My waist and deportment were not the only things that were progressing however, for outside of training time, my intimacy with Dieter also grew. In May he told me that he loved me and I him and we both kissed by the ornamental pond and a week later I told him that I wanted to enjoy with him what the Slovakians enjoyed. Full sex however, was impossible, due to my irksome chastity belt, so instead one evening I lay him on the bed and then sucked him off. This intimacy pleased us both, but of course did not help me in my quest for release, (his release after all, being of little importance since he was granted it several times daily whether he wanted it or not). A fortnight later, whilst we were lain on the bed, I mentioned this and he came up with an astonishing suggestion.

“Well, not all your holes are protected by that belt,” he said.

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

“There’s always the back-passage…”

I was mortified, astonished at his audacity and furious. I ordered him out of the room as quick as I could and vowed never to mention, let alone enjoy, intimate relations with Dieter Müller again. However, over the week that followed I got to thinking about quite how anal sex would feel and what it would be like to have his tool inside me in that place. Eventually, after a week and a half of agonising with myself, I said to him, “Ok, let’s do it. You can enter my arse.”

“Enter your arse, eh? Sorry darling, but that’s impossible.”

After all the build-up and now that! “Why?” I asked. “I thought you wanted it.”

“Oh I do, Kirsten, believe me I do, but a man can’t just shove his todger into a lady’s arse, you know. And particularly not a lady who wears corsets such as yours.”

“And whyever not?”

“Because your arse, or at least the hole is far too small, and the pressure from the corset makes it even smaller. My old man would never fit in there.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Ask Ms. Schmitz for a pessarie.”

I didn’t know what a pessarie was, but I asked the following day nonetheless. “That’s a good idea, my dear,” she replied, “a most healthy suggestion considering the pressure on your passage. I shall get one right away.” She then disappeared, click-clacking out of the room and returned a few minutes later with Božena. “Right now Miss Vogel,” she said. “Please bend as much as you can.”

Puzzled I did as she bid and then watched in horror as the maid pulled out a large plastic cylinder, the size of a large male penis and started coating it in lubricant. “What’s that?” I asked in horror.

“The pessarie of course,” replied Ms. Schmitz. “Now Božena dear, in it goes.”

And then with a thrust, a turn or two and a long loud groan from me, the cylinder was thrust up my back-passage. Once fully in and I was standing again I felt most full, bloated and uncomfortable.

“Jolly good,” said Ms. Schmitz. “I was planning to introduce this much later in your training, but this way we can now proceed to an even larger model in a few months time.”

Even larger! I felt like I wanted to die!

Dieter didn’t however. He was most pleased with the new addition and after a week or so of my bottom getting used to the new intruder we were both enjoying sex in the only way open to us, much to his satisfaction, though less so to mine.

The pessarie was not the only new addition to my life. Indeed, after the fitting of the new boots and corset, Ms. Schmitz began on a steady succession of adding new items of restriction. First up was a pair of cuff and then a chain of 10cm that ran between my ankles, causing my strides to be more ladylike and my walk consequently, much slower. Then came a wide leather strap just above the knees and the reduction of the chain to a mere 8cm. My steps were now no longer steps, but mere minces and my walks in the grounds now limited to the lawns. The ornamental pond and glasshouses were simply too far away.

It didn’t stop there either. The next part of my body to be restricted were my elbows which were brought behind my back, cuffs attached and then a chain of about twenty centimetres fastened between the two cuffs. “This will help your posture, my dear,” Ms. Schmitz had explained. “I was tempted to introduce a collar such as mine as your head sags when you walk, but I shall leave that for now and just implement this which will keep your shoulders back and your body upright. However, if you do not rectify your sagging head yourself, then trust me, I shall introduce a collar.”

You may be sure that my head was held high from that day onwards!

The elbow chain however, stayed at it was indeed most irksome. Naturally, my elbows did not want to stay forced behind my back and ached at first, but they soon got used to the position and that ceased to be a problem. What continued to be a problem however, was doing such everyday acts as holding a book to read or eating my dinner, and these problems only became more acute as Ms. Schmitz started to progressively shorten the chain. The only blessing was that I was forced to wear that infernal restraint only for six hours each day, three in the morning and three in the evening.

When the chain was down to a mere 3cm however, and my elbows were almost touching, most activities became almost impossible and so I spoke to my trainer about this. To my surprise however, she only agreed and said, “Fear not Miss Vogel, tomorrow matters will change.” Quite what that was meant to mean, at the time I had no clue. Naturally, I was soon to find out.

The following morning, after being laced and restrained as usual, I waited for the elbow cuffs to be attached, which, of course they were, although this time I noticed with some intrepidation that the chain between them was but a centimetre in length if that. After she had finished fitting that however, to my surprise, my trainer then returned to the wardrobe and brought out another item, this time another glove of long black leather. Unlike my other gloves however, I could see that this one was quite different, for it was plainly designed to hold both the arms together as one and render the wearer absolutely helpless. “It’s called a monoglove,” Ms. Schmitz explained, “and your elbow chain was introduced with the sole purpose of making you able to wear it. The monoglove has long been a toy used in BDSM games, though it’s sometimes called a single glove instead. As you can see, it holds your arms together rigidly so that not a muscle can be moved. Normally monogloves, such as this are made out of leather, although other materials can be used, and often, like this one, they have supporting straps that go around the neck. I shall not pretend to you that this will be easy to wear. Particularly after a few hours it causes great strain on the shoulder muscles, but it will do wonders for your posture. Nowadays, instead of the chain, you shall be wearing this every morning and evening.”

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“It’s called a monoglove,” Ms. Schmitz explained

Wearing such a garment certainly felt strange. By that time of course, after months of the elbow chain, I was quite used to having my arms restrained behind my back, but this monoglove was something else. With the chain, although my arms were forced back and I was unable to do many things, I still had a lot of movement and could grasp things, move my arms, bend by wrists and so on. Encapsulated in the glove however, my arms were absolutely immobile. Even my fingers couldn’t bend, forced as they were against their opposite numbers from the other hand and I was now entirely helpless.

“But what am I to do?” I asked, confused. “Ms. Schmitz, I cannot do anything now! How can I read, or hold the bannister or even go to the toilet by myself?”

“Obviously, Miss Vogel,” she replied, “you cannot. Whilst wearing the monoglove, Božena shall be attending you at all times. We have a desk ready for you to prop your books upon and when you need the page turning, you must ask her. She shall also accompany you on all walks to ensure that you do not fall and also on trips to the toilet and yes, before you ask, she shall wipe your bottom.”

So, I had been reduced to an entirely helpless doll, dependent upon my maid for everything!

You may be wondering of course, what I thought of all this, why I did not rebel more or try and escape my predicament. The question is indeed a valid one and the answer, even I am not sure of. Partially of course, there was the fact that the more restrained I was, the more difficult any rebellion was. Coupled with that, there was also the fact that I knew full well that there were powerful forces behind my kidnapping and present predicament, and any escape, even if successful, could only have resulted in dire consequences for myself. Then of course, I was by that time deeply in love with Dieter, and the thought of being parted from him, even if that meant being free of all my restraints, filled me with sadness. There was however, a fourth factor as well. Whilst I did not ask to be, or even enjoy being restrained, and indeed often did I cry into Dieter’s chest about my travails, I must admit to a strange liking, excitement or perhaps I should say fascination with my restraints. In a perverted kind of way, I got excited about being restrained and felt horny about being so helpless and doll-like. I cannot explain it fully to you as you have not been there, but all I can say is that the nature of that place and my whole weird life within it was wearing off on me.

The biggest shock however, was still to come.

It was a morning in the middle of July and my waist was now 43½cm in diametre and almost ready for the fourth and final corset. I had been taken for a short walk in the grounds by Božena wearing my monogloves and other restraints as was customary by that time and was quite exhausted as I mounted the stairs and then tottered down the corridor to my room. When I opened the door however, I got such a shock that I fainted on the spot and had to be caught by my maid from falling to the floor. When I was revived by the smelling salts I discovered that the cause of my shock was still there.

Sat on my bed, entirely naked save for a fetish discipline helmet and single sleeve which restrained his arms was Dieter. I knew it was him without being able to see a single feature of his face. After all, when you’re in love with somebody you get to know their entire body.

Stood beside him was Ms. Schmitz. “Don’t worry, Miss Vogel. He can neither see or hear us. He doesn’t not know where he is or who you are.”

“But what is he doing here?” I asked. “Surely he should be working now?”

“He is working Miss Vogel. He is here to train you. You assented to sexual training and so here it is. You are going to give him a hand job and he is going to tell you what you are doing right and wrong.”

And strangely enough, that is what happened. I sat beside my boyfriend and started jerking him off and he, from behind the helmet, gave businesslike instructions. “No Miss, you are caressing the wrong part. Caressing the stem brings nothing, caress the head… That’s better. However, you are moving your hand too fast and grasping too hard. That is not arousing, only annoying and at times painful,” and so on and so forth. I for one never realised that there was such and art to exciting a man and when he eventually came into my gloved hand with a gasp I must admit to feeling quite proud.

From that day on a session with Dieter became part of my daily routine and I soon learnt all the arts of not only giving hand jobs, but also oral sex, and I quite wondered as to how he’d ever achieved relief before, so bad had my previous technique been. I for one, in a perverse kind of way, (and by that time I was quite perverted), really enjoyed those sessions. After all, I was in love with the guy anyway, and the fact that he didn’t know that it was his girlfriend who was jacking or sucking him off everyday made it all the more exciting. It was my little secret and I often smiled when he told me about his day’s work, knowing that half the Slovakian girls that he was talking about were actually me! The only drawback was of course that my chastity belt still prevented me from having proper sex and achieving release and my that time I was dying for intercourse and would have done it with anyone at any time. I had half hoped that my sexual training would include me having the belt removed but alas, it was not to be and I remained incredibly frustrated.

And then at last, on the first of August, the big day came. My old corset was removed and the fourth and final pair of stays brought out and fitted around my torso. We reduced to the now-customary 43cm slowly and then Ms. Schmitz announced that ‘to celebrate the occasion’ I should have another full centimetre removed. I fainted twice during that session of further lacing and when conscious, I lay on the floor trying to recover after the strenuous lacing session, gasping for breath like a floundered fish. When the tape measure was passed round my waist however, and the figure ‘42cm’ read out I felt as proud as punch.

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I lay on the floor trying to recover after the strenuous lacing session.

Once that was done and I had fully recovered (or at least recovered as much as a girl can when laced to 42cm in an S-Kurve corset) to my surprise, Ms. Schmitz sat me on the bed and spoke the following words:

“Miss Vogel, I am proud of you, I really am. In all my years of doing this job, not once have I dealt with a girl so co-operative and determined to succeed as you have been. You are a credit to yourself and your nation and I am proud to say that, two months ahead of schedule, your training is now complete. Well done.”

I beamed and she smiled back. Then, she continued.

“So, as I said before, your training is now complete and that means that we can relax things a little. When I said it is complete however, I did not mean to say that your current regime will be halted entirely, as I am afraid it will not. You will be staying with us for another four months yet and during that time I am sorry to inform you, but the lacing will continue and you shall be brought down another 4cm to that magical 38. Furthermore, you shall still be required to wear your chastity belt, ankle chain and boots at all times. The rest however, shall be relaxed. Your monoglove I wish you to wear from time to time just so that you stay in practice, and so how does an hour every evening before you go to bed sound, my dear?”

How did it sound!? After six hours daily of such torture it sounded like positive freedom! “Thank you, Ms. Schmitz,” I said.

“That’s alright, my dear. Now, that’s not all that’s going to change in your routine. It has also been decided to change the garments and your image. After all, what’s the point in corsetting your waist away so that you look beautiful, when you don’t have clothes to sufficiently show that waist and your own natural beauty off? From now on Miss Vogel, you’ll be wearing these.”

And then she got up, went over to that previously locked fourth and final wardrobe, turned the key in the lock and threw it open. Inside it was filled with absolutely gorgeous gowns, such as they wear in those costume dramas on television, all made of the finest fabrics with lace and other adornments.

“I’m to wear those!?” I asked in amazement.

“Yes, my dear, you’re to look like a princess from now on. This castle dates from the 18th century you know, and so all those dresses are based on designs from that time. Go on, pick the one that you wish to wear today.”

I went over and looked through them. There were dozens and all were gorgeous. Eventually however, I picked out a pretty yellow day dress which, along with the countless petticoats that it required, was laced onto me by Božena and Ms. Schmitz.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror.

“Oh no, Miss Vogel, you’re far from complete yet,” warned my trainer with a smile.

“After all, a lady needs to have her hair and make-up done, does she not?”

That was true and yet in all my time at the castle I had entirely forgotten about such things, never having any make-up applied and my hair always being brushed out straight or put into a simple ponytail. Božena sat me down and started curling my hair into ringlets and arranging it in a style suitable for the dress that I was wearing, whilst Ms. Schmitz attacked my face, plucking my eyebrows almost bare and applying powder, lipstick and false eyelashes. It was an hour later before they had finished, but when I looked at myself again in the mirror, I realised that it had been entirely worth. I truly did look the princess! It was like a dream come true.

“May I take a stroll in the grounds now, Ms. Schmitz?” I asked.

“Of course, my dear, your time is your own. However, if you do so, don’t forget to wear your gloves and hat!” And then she handed me a pretty pair of white silken gloves to go over my leather ones and a large straw hat. I put on the gloves, had Božena tie the hat ribbon under my chin, (for wearing slippery silken gloves over my tight, thick leather ones meant that I could grip nothing and my hands were virtually useless), and minced off down the stairs and into the grounds.

On the lawn I met Dieter. He bowed and announced, “Milady, what a pleasure to see you here.” I blushed becomingly and then kissed him. My joy was now complete and I was the happiest girl in all of Germany as I strolled round that beautiful place in my pretty yellow dress and straw hat, my beau by my side.

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I was the happiest girl in all of Germany as I strolled round that beautiful place in my pretty yellow dress and straw hat

And from that day on, my life was indeed most pleasant. Daily I dressed in gowns fit for the set of Les Liasions Dangereus and lived like a princess. Of course, the lacing still continued, by now every quarter of a centimetre causing immense pain and effort and so tight was my corset that I had even started fainting during normal daily activities, just like the ladies did in the days of old. By the onset of November however, I had reached the hallowed 38cm and my corset was at last finally closed. And of course, I still had to wear the irksome pessarie at all times, and the monoglove for an hour every evening although I must admit, particularly in the case of the latter, that I actually quite enjoyed this form of perverted restriction and even looked forward to it.

Wearing such beautiful gowns of course, also caused new problems to arise. I had to learn the art of managing countless petticoats and visiting the toilet whilst encumbered with so much cloth, plus much time was now spent in hairstyling and applying make-up, but to be fair I minded not and apart from the continuing frustration of a lack of sexual release I was a most contented girl, although I must admit that I often puzzled as to why all this had happened to me and what it was all leading towards. Ms. Schmitz had mentioned four more months back in August which meant that something was due to happen around Christmas or New Year time. The big question however, was, what?

Then, on the 1st December, the onset of Advent, I learnt it all.

It was the evening and I was sat, my arms restrained in the monoglove, a copy of Musil’s ‘A Man Without Qualities’ propped open on the desk in front of me, Božena silently turning the pages, when Ms. Schmitz walked in and quietly asked the maid to leave. She did so and then my trainer carefully undid my restraint.

“Miss Vogel,” said she. “We have to talk.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“Almost a year ago, you were brought to this place by underhand means for a purpose that so far has remained a mystery to you. Tonight I shall reveal what that purpose is, for the task which you are to fulfill is to be fulfilled in the very near future.”

Something stirred in my breast, fear or excitement, I am unsure which.

“Miss Vogel, I shall start by giving you a little history lesson. In the 16th century the famous religious reformer, Martin Luther, broke away from the Catholic Church and its traditions and became the world’s first Protestant. As we all know, millions soon followed him. When forming his new faith he made many changes to the accepted, Roman version of Christianity. One of them was that he did away with the revering of saints and that of course included St. Nicholas. However, without a St. Nicholas, who was to give presents to the little children at Christmastime? Naturally someone was needed, so Luther invented a new character, the Christmas Angel or Christkind. Ever since, German children have been brought up to believe that a kindly angel comes down from Heaven and gives them presents on Christmas Eve.”

I nodded. Indeed, as a child, I had believed this too.

“In the city of Nuremberg, for centuries they produced tinsel models of angels that were sold in the markets during Advent. This was but a local tradition but under the rule of the National Socialists that image of the Christkind became anchored in the collective German mind. They built on Nuremberg’s tradition of producing tinsel angels, and in 1933, had a teenage girl in an angel costume open the city’s Christmas Market for the first time. Since then the city has chosen a 17 or 18 pretty girl to open the market every year.”

“I know,” I answered. “I went once with my family.”

“Now, as I told you before, you were kidnapped by a group of twelve very important and influential individuals and that that group first assembled during the time of the National Socialists, or to be more precise, in 1936. They got together to further the interests of Germany. At the time they were all fervent, patriotic members of the National Socialist Party, but over the years they changed, particularly when it became clear that Hitler was on a path to self-destruction and then later when the war was lost and the political climate changed dramatically. Through all times however, from 1936 to this day, in war and peace, it has been that group, not the parliament or army or anything else, that has steered the course of the German nation or to be more blunt, has run the country. They are a committee assembled to rule, and rule is what they do.

However, like all organisations, there is play as well as work, and I am afraid that power usually attracts some of the most unsavourary of characters. During that first Christmas Market in 1936, two members of the Twelve happened to be present, and both commented on how comely the Nuremberg Christkind was, and so that evening they had here kidnapped and both raped the poor lass repeatedly before making her disappear forever into the abyss of Dachau.

I am pleased to say however, that over the years, whilst the perversion has remained, they have improved their tactics somewhat. The fact is Miss Vogel, that you were brought here this year and trained in the manner that you have been trained in order to perform the role of this year’s Christkind at the annual Christmas Banquet of the Twelve here in this castle. You shall dress up in the angel costume and welcome those powerful figures; you shall entertain them throughout the meal, and then, like a true Christkind, you shall give them their presents.”

“Presents?”

“Yes, presents, or to be more precise, the twelve Slovakians. 18 months before they took a trip to Slovakia and picked the girls that pleased them most from the hundreds of applicants. These girls were then brought here and trained in the perversions which their particular Master or Mistress most prefers. After the banquet they shall stay in their owner’s home for the period of a year, after which they are free, rich and holders of German nationality. Then, the following year, now slaves will be presented to the Twelve by a new Christkind.”

“And is give out presents all that I have to do?”

“Well, yes… and no. Technically, yes. The Twelve are kinder these days and if you wish to do no more, then you shall be required to do no more. However, if you are willing to do more, then you shall be handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”

“Rewarded?”

“Yes, let me explain. You have been absent for a year. No one knows where you have been and who kidnapped you except for your parents who received a visitor from the Twelve who told them all and impressed on them the influence of his organisation. They know that you are safe and although worried, are not frantic. They have told your friends that you have gone backpacking in South East Asia I believe. But I digress… You have been absent for a year and that year has been a year without any pay. However, if you are willing, you can make up for that on the night of the banquet. The custom is that the Twelve hold a lottery and the winner is granted the right to spend the night with that year’s Christkind, or in other words, you. Now, if you will look at this form, then you will see how handsomely the Twelve are prepared to reward you for your service.”

I looked at the proffered paper. It read:-

We, the Twelve undertake to pay the 2005 Christkind the following amounts for assenting to the following acts.

 

Sleeping with the winning member                                   €100,000

Having normal sex with the winning member               €1,000,000

Having anal sex with the winning member                    €1,230,000

Providing oral sex for the winning member                    €560,000

Acquiescing to wearing a monoglove during the night spent with member  €834,000

Drinking the urine of the winning member                     €1,983,000

Acquiescing to wearing a ring-gag during the night spent with member      €134,000

Acquiescing to wearing a discipline helmet during the night, etc.         €876,000

Kissing the winning member                                                    €52,000

I was astonished and yet excited. By each line there was a box for me to tick if I agreed or not. But what would I agree to. Some of those things were pretty disgusting and yet reading about them all turned me on. And so much money at stake too…

Ms. Schmitz handed me and pen and almost to my own surprise, I slowly but surely ticked them all. My trainer smiled. “You’ve been a good student, Miss Vogel,” she said, before adding. “Oh, and by the way, they tip extremely generously.”

It was eleven o’clock on the morning of the 24th December. I had been woken by Božena at six and bathed, before the lacing into my corset began. That took almost an hour and the usual couple of fainting fits before it was fully closed, and then my boots, new ones for the occasion and with actual en pointe ballet heels, were fitted, the lacing of each one taking a full fifteen minutes. Then came the gloves and after that I was taken to a chair to sit down whilst my hair and make-up were attended to.

The make-up of the Christkind was most severe with a thick coat of powder, pink lip gloss and my eyebrows plucked entirely and new ones drawn on in a higher position so that I appeared eternally surprised.

If the make-up was severe however, the hairstyle was worse. My blonde hair, which was quite long by this time, was bleached an even blonder blonde and then curled in the most ridiculous perm so that it looked almost artificial. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it was not Kirsten Vogel that I saw, but instead some brainless, vacant bimbo.

After the styling was complete, it was time to don the costume. The Christkind has to wear a most ridiculous outfit indeed, a long white and silver dress, adorned with large golden stars and requiring ten petticoats to fill it out and then over that a long, pleated cape of gold. White silken gloves were then drawn onto my hands and finally, to top it all off, the heavy, tall crown was placed on my head. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw some fantasy fairy-tale fuck toy staring brainlessly back.

christkind9
It was not Kirsten Vogel that I saw, but instead some brainless, vacant bimbo

That done, I left the room, mincing slowly down the stairs, virtually immobile and very unsteady in the en pointe boots, into a photo studio that had been arranged for the occasion where we spent over an hour photographing the 2005 Christkind from every angle imaginable.

Then, there was a short break before I was taken to the main entrance to welcome the guests. I had to stand there for almost an hour unaided whilst the Twelve arrived, and my feet were on fire for the entire period. Member after member turned up in their limousines and I had to welcome each one with a kiss, whilst they fondled my backside and surging breasts annoyingly.

christkind9_1

I had to stand there for almost an hour unaided whilst the Twelve arrived

Then we all retired to the drawing room where it was my job to keep them entertained. And I soon learnt what being entertained meant. I was forced to sit on the lap of Mr. Baier the AGPA chief whilst he fondled me and licked my neck before going over to Mr. Wolf of BMV and treating him to a hand job, the results of which formed by breakfast that morning. After he had enjoyed that particular service they all wanted it, except Ms. Becker of the Christian Democrats who preferred to French kiss.

That ordeal lasted four hours and then it was declared that the festivities should begin. We all went into the large gothic dining room and the Twelve dined whilst I tottered around the table filling their wine glasses and they watched a display of live lesbian sex performed by two of the Slovakians on the table.

Then it was back to the drawing room for the presents. I, as the Christmas Angel, stood by the huge tree and kissed each member as he or she collected the package that was lying for them underneath that tree. Each package was enormous and when opened a Slovakian mummified in a leather body sack was revealed. The Slovakians were left trammelled however for what was undoubtedly the highlight – for them that is, not I – of the evening, namely the drawing of the lottery to see whom would be spending the night with the Christkind.

I cannot say that I was particularly bothered as to who I would be sleeping with that night, for none of the men were particularly attractive or interesting and all were middle-aged. The one thing I was sure about however, was that I did not want Ms. Becker as the thought of copulating with one of my own sex made me feel quite sick and so I was praying inwardly, ‘Not the woman, not the woman,’ as Gen. Schröder of the Army was given the honour of drawing and he came up to me, patted me on the bottom and drew out the slip of paper from the gold sack that I was holding.

“Mathias Baier,”  he announced, quite dejected that he was not to be having the honour. So, I was to spend the night with the obese AGPA chief who was now making his way over to me, leering excitedly.

Soon after that we all retired, the members with their new Slovakians and I with Mr. Baier, (his Slovakian was left unwanted and still entombed in leather by the tree). We entered his princely chamber and he started kissing me. ‘Oh well, that’s €50,000,’ I thought as I tasted the red wine and roast goose in his saliva. He on the other hand, was far too excited to care what I thought. He really was like a big child and he kept repeating over and over again, ‘I’m going to fuck the Christmas Angel! I’m going to fuck the Christmas Angel!’ I however, minded not, for unappealing though he was, I needed sex. I am sure looking back that I had been fed some strong aphrodisiac that day as never before had I so wanted sex like that. He lay me on the bed, tossed my skirts over my head, unlocked the chastity belt and then, yesssssssssssssssss!!! He was in, screaming ‘I’m fucking the Christmas Angel! I’m fucking the Christmas Angel!’

It did not take long, but of course, he was not over. After all, had I not acquiesced to the lot? After finishing I sucked him clean and then left him strip me of my costume till only my corset and boots remained, and he was circling my waist with his hands and muttering, ‘The Christmas Angel’s waist is so tiny!’ Then I let him lace me into the monoglove and put the ring-gag in my mouth, before he removed my pessarie and started on my arse, screaming, ‘The Christmas Angel is getting it up the arse by Baier the King of Christmas!’ I listened not and instead just imagined that it was my dear Dieter who was taking his pleasure.

After that however, Mr. Baier declared himself spent and his face was certainly red and flustered, so we showered together and then he lay down for the night, fitting a discipline helmet over my head that rendered me deaf and blind and then fitting his flaccid penis into the mouth opening and ordering me to give him a blowjob before then releaving himself of the calls of nature into my mouth afterwards. It was disgusting, truly horrible, and yet I swallowed and smiled. After all, would I not be free soon and well-paid for my efforts?

Several hours and one more blowjob later, my arms dead from being forced into the monoglove for so long I eventually fell asleep, a Christmas Angel exhausted from giving out so many presents.

I could sense the light even before I opened my eyes. When I eventually did so I found that I was in a white room, lain on a white bed. Baier was gone and my bondage was gone. In fact I was naked save for a white corset similar to the one that I had worn when first arriving at the castle. Light streamed in from a nearby window. I walked over to the window and looked out. The cityscape of central Berlin was stretched out below me. I was in a high-class apartment in some city centre tower block.

I walked back to the bed and then sat down. To my right was a white door. I got up, went over to it, opened it and walked through. I found myself in a white kitchen with a big white table in the centre. On the table was a laptop computer. It was switched on. I went over to it and looked at the screen. On it was a message. I read the message.

Kirsten,

You are now free to go about your life once again. The payment for your efforts is in the envelope beside this computer. The apartment that you are now in is yours. It is your tip for a job well done. Your parents know your location and should be with you within an hour or two. In the meantime, if you open the door to your left you shall find a pleasant surprise. One final thing. Ms. Schmitz advises you to keep the corset on for sometime until your body gets adjusted to living without being tightlaced. She also wishes you the best of luck.

The Twelve

I picked up the envelope beside the computer. In it was a lottery ticket, that was all. I then walked over to the door that they had mentioned and opened. It led into another bedroom. Lying on the bed in the middle of the room still sound asleep was Dieter Müller.

I walked over to my love and lay beside him. He stirred and opened his eyes. “Good morning, darling,” I said.

“I asked to be left with you,” he replied. “Are you alright.”

“Quite fine,” I said truthfully.

“Shall we go out for breakfast then?” he asked.

“Later,” I replied. “There’s something more important that we need to do first.”

He smiled as I took off my clothes and let his tool slide into me. It was a happy ending to a long and strange journey.

Postscript

The lottery ticket in the envelope was of course the winning ticket in the 6 aus 49 Superzahl. The winnings amounted to €6,769,000 exactly. I met my parents that day and they were overjoyed to see that I was safe and sound, though horrified to hear of my experiences, (even though I gave them a much watered-down account). I decided to stay wearing the corset as I had learnt to enjoy the tightness that it provided and besides, my new fiancé, Dieter Müller liked to see me tightly-laced. Some of the first purchases we made with the jackpot money were some en pointe leather boots, a monoglove and a pair of thick leather gloves. In the privacy of our apartment we sometimes remember our Christkind experience in a unique and private way.

It is seven years exactly since I became the Christmas Angel. I am now a university graduate, as is my Dieter and we are due to be married next Spring. In the meantime we have Christmas to celebrate and this year we are doing what we do every year.

We are going to the Nuremberg Market to watch the Christkind open the show.

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[1] Adapted from an article on Deutsche Welle.

The Gift Offering: Part 3

Part 2

Part 3

Princess Hetephernebty, the wife of Prince Amenhirkhepshef sits on the shelf in her marital home and stares into space as she does every day. She has been married for five years now and can expect to stay married for another fifty, maybe even a hundred. The lifespans of potgirls can be as much as triple that of the unpotted due to the modifications that they have received and the easiness of their lives. Not that she is glad of this fact.

Her wedding, a double celebration with that of her younger sister to Prince Hapuneseb, was one of the biggest occasions in the kingdom. Anyone who was anyone was there and for her, not only did it mean she would be joined forever to an unknown man, but also that her new look was revealed to the world.

For, as preparation for marriage, she had been repotted, and her previously exposed breasts deemed inappropriate for a married woman. Married women are modest and chaste, saving their charms only for their spouses.

The irony!

And because her husband was of a much lower status than her, then her new look was less opulent too. After all, in Egyptian society a woman is merely a reflection of her guardian’s status, and whilst her previous guardian had been the pharaoh, now he was just a mere prince.

He hadn’t been that before. Both the new princes had, previously, been the second sons of minor officials who had been promoted after the palace coup. Promoted because they would never be a threat to her brother. And, once again, she had become a gift offering to seal that political alliance.

Heti’s new pot was significantly plainer than her previous one, but it had a quiet, simple appeal to it. A mid-length neck flared out into a body, giving the impression of a wide set of hips. A set of handles joined the neck and body of her pot. Each was a single piece, composed of clay. Around the neck of her pot, a red and blue porcelain necklace hung. She had to admit to herself that she looked cute but she longed for the opulence of her single days.

Egyptian_Pot_MEDIUM

For after marriage she had moved out of the main palace and into a far humbler residence, hundreds of miles away in Memphis, the city that her husband had been made titular governor of. Away from the court and society, things were simpler here and infinitely more boring. The lack of company drove her mad.

But that was not the worst thing.

No, it was the lack of something else.

Release.

You would have thought that she would be getting more of that since she now had a husband to provide it for her. But what she had not anticipated – and what had stunned her into speechlessness when the white bridal shroud was removed from over her in the Grand Temple on her wedding day, was that, in order to ensure his loyalty, Prince Amenhirkhepshef had undergone potisation as well! He too was unveiled, in a pot identical to hers, save for where a piece of white silk modestly covered her womanly parts, a similar silk sheath did little to disguise the tool swaddling within.

A tool that she later learned had been deliberately enlarged and was kept almost permanently erect through the use of herbs and more modern elixirs, all at the sadistic orders of her increasingly deranged brother.

Their wedding night had been memorable… though not for the right reasons.

Potted people cannot copulate as normal folk do. Even if they are arranged so that their genitals touch or indeed fill their partner, they cannot move their bodies to fulfil the act. Even those with sufficient neck movement cannot jostle their own pots, stable and heavy as they are. As with everything else, a third party is required.

On her wedding night, she was taken to the bedchamber with her husband and his sheath removed to reveal the enormous, straining rod, pierced at the top with a jewelled gold ring as a gift from the pharaoh.

The same pharaoh who then entered the room with his potted, formerly unfaithful queen, who had had her lips unsewn and golden mouth-ball temporarily removed for the special occasion.

Princess Hetephernebty was then carried before her husband on his pedestal by two maidservants who then carefully worked his rampant tool into her mouth. The enormous rod filled her completely and she struggled to keep it in place. Knowing what she had to do, though detesting herself for doing it at the same time, she slowly started to lick and suck which caused her unfamiliar groom to groan in ecstasy, for he had been deliberately kept unmilked for weeks prior to the occasion. Then, upon a command from the pharaoh, the maids started rocking her pot backwards and forwards, impaling her on the warm, throbbing stick. Prince Amenhirkhepshef groaned in even greater pleasure while Heti spluttered and gagged, her throat unused at having something so large thrust into it.

Eventually, she felt her husband’s reduced body start to shudder and the disgusting precum start to seep onto her tongue. She prepared herself for his seed, but then, after the pharaoh clicked his fingers, the maids ceased the rocking and withdrew her until Prince Amenhirkhepshef’s excitement subsided.

Then the entire process was begun afresh, she working her spouse slowly into a frenzy with her face before, when he was on the brink, it was stopped again.

And so it continued, for five times until, upon one word from her brother, Prince Amenhirkhepshef was finally allowed to achieve satisfaction and he jetted his long-unreleased seed all over his new bride’s face.

While at the same time the pharaoh similarly erupted all over the face of his potted queen who had similarly been pleasuring her husband orally with her untoothed mouth.

But both women were left unsatisfied and with dried semen still caking their cheeks in the morning.

Still, at least that was the only time she had to suffer such an indignity. Not since then has she had to endure her husband’s ever-swollen cock in her mouth.

Or even touch him.

No, the Prince and Princess have not once, in all their years of marriage, shared so much as a kiss. Instead, they must spend each day, only inches from one another, standing on a shelf in their pots. Indeed, they struggle to even look at one another because, as they are side-by-side both facing to the front, near-permanent decorations in their own empty home, they have to really crane their necks round to do so. Indeed Heti could see her husband’s engorged spear penetrate her field of view before he did, projecting helplessly out into the open air as it does.

The pharaoh, in his benevolence, does allow them release. But only when he decrees it: on the religious festivals in the annual calendar: the Opening of the Year; Thoth; the First of the Year; Wag; Sokar; the Great Festival; the Flame festival; the Procession of Min and Sadj. On those auspicious days, the couple are placed on pedestals facing one another and while one maidservant milks Prince Amenhirkhepshef, a second pleasures Hetephernebty with the porcelain rod. The experience is exquisite; it is what she lives for and, as she gazes into the eyes of the man that she is married to, both pots climaxing in unison, she almost believes that she loves him.

For on all other days, she just rests there in her vase, her potted husband at her side, and waits.

She sighs. Outside the sun begins to set over the majestic Nile. She makes a mental note: only four more days until Sokar.

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Written 20/12/18

The Gift Offering: Part 2

Part 1

Part 2

The mirrored chamber was opulence itself. Walls of silver and glass reflected a king’s ransom in golden baubles and trinkets through a haze of incense smoke. An ornate brazier of coals was placed in the centre, cushioned couches, pedestals, and seats radiating outwards from it. Through a window in the ceiling, the light of the morning filtered through, carving bright ribbons into the smoke as the mirrors reflected it across the room. The sight of the magnificent chamber would have been enough to fill the heart of almost anyone with awe and respect, but these days Princess Hetephernebty wasn’t just anyone.

Set upon her pedestal, she surveyed the room with an expression of profound bleary-eyed boredom. As she stretched her neck, hearing it crack. She enjoyed that profoundly. After all, it was the last part of her body with which she could independently gain such relief. It reminded her of her humanity. She deigned to let out a yawn. Her jet-black hair was plastered to the amber skin of her forehead with sweat, she could feel it. Heti shook her head back and forth in a futile attempt to get her hair to behave, but it was no use. It was times like this that she wished she had hands, or arms for that matter, but those luxuries were well behind her. Below her neck was a series of golden rings which widened into an elaborately decorated clay pot, the vessel which contained what remained of her body.

The incense-filled room was making her sweat, but that often wasn’t the sole cause, the clay of the pot that encased her made it hard for her body to manage its temperature and she knew that she was overheating. In the early days that had been one of the hardest things to adjust to. The lack of movement, lack of limbs and dependency she had been prepared for as much as someone can be prepared for such things. But the fact that she was too encased to even control her own body temperature, now that had been an unpleasant surprise. She needed to get some fresh air.

Heti was still trying to shake her sweat-matted hair from her forehead when a woman walked into the room. Clad in the flowing white linen robes of one of her maidservants, the girl slowly approached her mistress. “Can I be of service, Princess?” she asked deferentially. The Pharaoh’s sister fixed her with as regal a smile as she could manage and beckoned her over with a flick of her neck. Cool hands met her warm skin, arranging her hair, and Heti shivered, “bring me outside to the balcony,” she said, “I need some air.”

In the three years since we last saw her, Heti’s life has changed completely. An even greater change than her elevation from Dutch university student to Egyptian princess, even though she hasn’t moved a hundred metres from the throne room where her brother, Pharaoh Khaemweset II, pronounced her fate. For, following that interview, she and her little sister Ahmose were forced to undergo an ancient royal ritual.

They had both become potgirls.

Potisation – or potting, as it is generally referred to – is an ancient and unbelievably complicated and dangerous tradition. When it first appeared, more than a millennium ago, it was so lethal that around forty per cent of the girls put forward for the honour did not survive. But those in charge deemed it worth the risk, for what are the deaths of a few noblewomen compared to the peace and stability of the nation?

It all resulted from centuries of palace coups. The Egyptian pharaohs had been polygamous since time began, begetting scores of children who, when grown up, fought to the death over who would inherit the imperial throne. After a particularly bloody civil war lasting thirty years fought between an eldest daughter of the former pharaoh and her younger brother, the victor – the brother, incidentally – decided to institute reforms designed to ensure that the succession was never questioned again. So, it was that all siblings save for the eldest son were potted upon reaching puberty, after which they could live out a life of leisured luxury, still able to advise the ruler and participate in court life, but never able to take the throne themselves, spread gossip or breed offspring who could similarly challenge the established order.

Potisation was an arduous ordeal, lasting eighteen hours minimum, often much longer. The subject would first be drugged in a religious ceremony, so that they remained totally unconscious for several days. Then they were taken to the temple altar, under Ra’s eternal gaze, where the royal surgeon would operate upon them. First, their limbs were removed, the nerves deadened, so that only a torso and head remained. Then that torso was opened up. Living in a pot requires much less body mass, so most of the organs inside were either removed or reduced in size. The liver, stomach, bladder and intestines were reduced in size while one Kidney and Lung were removed. Most of the bones were also removed, leaving only the skull and some of the spine intact. The only thing that was left alone was the heart.

After that, the torso was sewn back up and then placed inside the pot the subject – or their guardian – had chosen ahead of time. The body was by this stage only slightly larger than the head, but could vary in length or anatomical arrangement based on the desired design. The clay pots, by this time a secret blend of clay and strengthening plastic for shock-resistance, were made without the top attached to them. Furthermore, the neck of the pot came in two parts so that, once the reduced torso was placed in the bottom part of the vessel, the top two pieces were then closed around it, sealing it in, the subject’s head protruding from the top, the fitting being extremely snug creating a nearly-watertight seal as all pots were handmade for the occupant within. As the pot was so tight fitting, and  the soft, modified body assumed its shape and soon settled into it (assuming the stresses of the operations had not caused a fatality), meaning that it became more or less one with the pot, removable only with another complex operation. And thus, a potgirl was created. Reduced and encased in such an extreme manner, they were incapable, not only of bearing competing heirs, but also of almost any movement beyond the turning of the neck, and even that was reduced to a mere 45 degrees in each direction, or less in some cases. It was seen as the very epitome of luxury, and as potent of a symbol of wealth as the human mind could devise. Disabled as such, in essence imprisoned for life within their vessel, the occupant was entirely dependent on servants for everything.

Is it any wonder that poor Heti was so appalled when her brother ordered her potisation, or that their mother had run away to another continent to avoid it? Or that the Dutch government had granted her refugee status without thinking twice?

But despite her objections, her pleas and her resistance, she too was forced to undergo the process. After all, this wasn’t about her but the kingdom, and an elder sister to the pharaoh was always going to be seen as a threat to national stability.

That said, Pharaoh Khaemweset II was not without compassion for his sisters. Although his character had changed considerably since ascension to the throne – gone was the nerdy, shy boy and in his place sat a domineering young despot who thought about little beyond his numerous concubines and other bedpartners – he still remembered the old days when his sisters had looked after him and supported him after the tragic death of their parents. Therefore, he let Princess Hetephernebty have considerable say in the design of the vessel in which she was to be entombed for both this life and the one beyond (for potted people are always cremated in the very pots that they lived in upon death, so that they may be potted in the afterlife as well) and so she decided to make the most of the opportunity.

After all, it could be the last bit of freedom she would ever exercise.

When sketching out her vision to the royal potter and surgeon, Princess Hetephernebty expressed certain desires that resulted in the vessel in which she is encased being rather unusual. Unlike more standard pots, generally shaped like traditional canopic jars, Heti’s incorporated an additional window in the front of the jar through which her ripe, plump breasts burgeon outwards, their nipples pierced with golden rings. These piercings and others symbolized not only her painful integration with the mantle of egyptian nobility, but had also been a desire of hers for quite a while, limited only by european modesty which of course was no longer a concern.

Heti had thought long and hard about what it was that gave her life quality and pleasure as a “normal” girl and how that could be maintained as much as possible after her potisation. While running, swimming and most of her other favourite pursuits would now be forever barred to her, she realised that, since attaining adulthood, she had become extremely sexually active, regularly masturbating to a degree that was unseemly, and she also loved having men fondle her breasts and play with her sensitive nipples. And so, if those little pleasures could be kept after her ordeal, then all the better, and if they were deemed a trifle improper, who cares? She was a princess now, after all.

And so, unlike most other potgirls, who have their breasts removed or simply entombed within the jar, she demanded a window for them so that she may feel the breeze upon them and have servants touch her, providing great pleasure. And as for masturbation, below them was a second, smaller window through which one could see her denuded womanhood, flowering below. Unlike above, such openings were standard for all potgirls; a necessity for waste expulsion, but Heti instructed the potter to make hers a little larger than usual in order to fully expose her sensitive bud (which many potgirls have removed), and also for those most womanly parts to be pierced like her nipples, so as to draw attention to them and enhance the one bit of fun she still had left to her.

The sun came into view as the servant exited the main series of chambers from the palace; the hot and smoky air of the chamber of mirrors where she had slept left behind for air soothingly warm, tempered with a gentle breeze. Heti took in the sight of the water gardens and the majestic Nile beyond as she peered over the edge of the balcony. She felt herself being lowered onto a pedestal, the signature vibrations of impact somewhere below her line of sight, and then the servant girl quickly withdrew her hands.

A few minutes passed as she continued to gaze out over the vista before her. As she did, she remembered the very first day that she was placed on this pedestal, something that has become a ritual in her much-altered life. She recalled waking up from that long, drug-induced slumber and, even though she knew, rationally, how things would be, immediately panicking. The total lack of ability to do anything for herself, the complete and permanent imprisonment, the destruction of all her dreams and freedoms. Even as the drugs faded away, her mind stayed numb. She acknowledged no one, did not speak or even move. On that morning the maid placed her there and she simply stood and gazed out for hour after hour, mindless and defeated. Strangely though, the Nile helped her accustom herself, at least, as much as anyone could normalise potisation.

The breeze picked up somewhat, and now the sweat was wicked from her skin. Heti continued to stare imperiously out over the kingdom while the servant stood silently behind her. Then she shuddered at the caress of the breeze against her spread labia, her nipples hardened, and the hairs on her neck stood on end. Her eyes were still distant, but across her face spread a sly feline smile and she turned her neck to address the servant.

“Are you cold, my lady?” the girl asked. “I could get a blanket, or maybe bring you inside.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Heti paused, and then said, “Open the drawer beneath my pedestal.”

The sound of wood scraping against wood alerted the potgirl that the drawer was being been opened. She removed something which she held in front of her mistress. The object in her hand had a warm-coloured porcelain shaft with a somewhat bulbous rounded head, all set upon a polished wooden handle. “Do you require release?”

Heti nodded.

The servant girl placed her hand on Heti’s womanhood. The potgirl shivered and tilted her head back, a small sigh escaping from the back of her throat. Carefully, the servant’s fingers probed the inside of her, darting in and retreating with increasing intensity.

Heti’s breathing quickened now, and she felt a growing dampness spreading out from within her. The girl’s fingers slid out of her, and she let out a soft moan, followed by a slight gasp as the bulbous porcelain shaft was slid in. Much to her embarrassment, the princess noticed her own tongue was hanging out of her mouth, but beyond a slight blush of embarrassment, she didn’t care, she was lost in the pulsating throes of ecstasy as her servant thrust the spear into her, by now knowing exactly which angle and rhythm elicited the most rapturous moans from her holy mistress. Heti wanted to reach out, to claw at the table or fondle her unattended breasts, but it was beyond impossible now. The tension just built and built and–  

As she climaxed, a second gasp escaped her throat, and she began to pant, her tongue still lolling. The porcelain slithered out of her and she let out another shuddering breath. The servant girl had set it down beside her on the pedestal and was now standing a few feet away.

“That shall be all,” she said when she had recovered her breath. “Bring me a cool towel and then breakfast.”

Egyptian_pot-girl_MEDIUM

Following the morning pleasuring, Princess Hetephernebty’s day continued in the same routine that it did every other day. She ate breakfast – only a couple of tiny, richly flavorful morsels; her reduced stomach could take no more – and then had her bath. This was not a full immersion of course, more like a soaping and sponging down of all the exposed parts of her body, before she was dried, and made ready for the world.

Heti left the bathhouse smelling of perfume, her hair damp, her eyes darkened with makeup, her lips glossy purple, and her skin glistening with oil. The maidservant held her tightly as she strode down corridor after corridor, her bare feet gingerly treading the floor, careful not to trip and fall. She kept up a steady pace until her mistress said, “Halt!” Immediately the well-trained girl did so. She knew why the princess had barked out such an order but said nothing. It was not her place.

Coming the opposite way was one of the palace guards. He was a strapping young fellow whose fine physique was accentuated by his uniform; a uniform that left his manly chest bare and exposed. Not much good in a battle perhaps, but when she had redesigned the staff uniforms in favor of ancient stylings, Princess Hetephernebty had not had such things in mind.

Her lust-filled eyes drank him in as he approached, and the maid felt uneasy. She didn’t want either herself or the guard to get in trouble but if the queen found out, like she had last time, then…

“Soldier, halt!” ordered the potgirl. The man stopped, at attention. “Let me approach him!” she commanded the girl. Gingerly, the maid moved her mistress forwards until she was only inches from the guard’s sweat-sheened chest. Heti breathed in and let the manly scent envelope her nostrils and fill her reduced lungs. Down below she felt warm and damp, the tingles only beginning.

“You have not washed today, guard,” she said softly, almost a whisper. He did not reply; what could he say? “You could get in trouble… if someone else notices.” Again he said nothing. “But I am merciful,” she continued. “Let me help you.” The maid knew what to do and, nervously, she tilted the pot slightly and moved it forwards until it touched the guard’s chest. The princess’s tongue flicked out and licked the exposed nipple of the soldier that was positioned before her face. “All clean now,” she purred.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, neutrally.

“Show your thanks,” she replied.

The guard went down on one knee and lifted the silk sheet covering her breasts. Then he used his own tongue to lick first one nipple, then the other, which he suckled at for but a moment longer. Heti shuddered in bliss. He stood up, dropped the silk back down and then moved his face next to hers. His unadorned lips met her purple painted ones. They kissed and she made sure her tongue explored his mouth.

In the distance, footsteps could be heard. She finished the kiss and the maid withdrew her. “You may continue,” said Heti with a sly feline smile, “and I shall keep our little secret. As will you.” The soldier walked on.

Then she was taken to the water gardens where, formerly, she had frolicked and played. In public like that, of course, covers were placed over her breasts and womanhood for the sake of modesty, but the fine silk did little to hide her curves and rings. There she was placed in a circle of pedestals and joined by the other potgirls of the court, her sister Ahmose of course, and around a dozen other women of the new nobility who had been potted, almost all against their will.

Formerly, noble girls were educated from an early age to look forward to their potisation, to see it as the ultimate embodiment of prestige and luxury. Girls would begin their schooling at the age of five and have it drummed into their heads that a lady is there to do nothing and to be totally dependent. That her value is in her helplessness, and the little girls were shown their potted elder sisters, aunts and mothers and taught to look up to them as pious, proper role models. Around ten, further training may commence. Many girls would then have their arms restrained, folded behind their backs, palm to palm, elbow to elbow, so that any use of those limbs became but a distant memory. And following that, at around twelve, the legs were also restrained, feet folded against the bottom, and the young ladies carried around on cushions. Potisation was still a great leap from such full-bodied freedom, but this education was a start, an easing into their new status.

But, like Princess Hetephernebty, none of the potgirls present in the water gardens that day had had the advantage of such conditioning. It had been hard on all of them, but particularly so for some of the lesser potgirls whose fathers had been far stricter in the application of the potisation than Pharaoh Khaemweset II had with his sisters. Those harsh and pious parents had decreed that their daughters have their lovebuds removed in the traditional style, and a metal screen installed over the window for their womanly parts, the only window in their jars, so that any attainment of sexual release would be impossible, not only now but for all eternity.

Release was impossible, but the desire always remained, enhanced by the boredom of their new existences and the sexual stimuli all around them. This came in the form of handsome servants, palace guards or, if they were inclined that way, the beautiful maids, but it was often more than that. When Heti surveyed her potgirl companions, she had to admit that she found them beautiful and, perversely, sexually stimulating. There was something about their total incapacity that drove the potgirls’ hormones to excess, it was true; but aesthetically, there was something about the idea of a girl’s head popping out of the top of an elegant and exquisitely-crafted jar that was profoundly erotic though, for the life of her, she could not think why.

Indeed, there was much about them which one would imagine could only deter sensual thoughts. When Heti imagined what her own body might look like should her pot ever be smashed, she shuddered: a misshapen bag of skin and atrophied muscle, covering the reduced organs and bones that the temple surgeons had left inside. Indeed, prior to her potisation, she had become morbidly fascinated with the entire process and, to demonstrate it all to her, the palace officials had brought before her a most curious girl indeed.

It was a foreign girl who had been kidnapped by some now-dead prince and used as his sexual companion. However, when he had discovered her infidelity with a servant, he had ordered them both undergo potisation as a form of punishment. However, unlike all other potgirls, for the purposes of medical education (and to increase her sense of shame and vulnerability) he had ordered her entombed within, not a pottery vase, but a glass one, so that all within was visible. The sight was hideous, indeed, it had made her feel physically sick at the time, and yet it was also addictively fascinating. She had returned several times to view the beating heart and pumping lung of the girl and, after her own potisation had been completed, Heti’s pity for the poor wretch increased all the more, for at least a ceramic pot allows the body to stay cool to a certain degree: imprisoned in glass, that girl must have been roasting at all times. Or perhaps she could not feel the building heat, but that was perhaps more dangerous. Plus, with no genitalia (this was stipulated as part of the punishment), she would never know pleasure again.

potgirls_organs

Heti was shifted out of her musings on the differing lots of her potgirl sisters by the sound of a splash as someone dove into the garden pools, though it was more of a lake. Who was it? Obviously, she could turn her neck somewhat, but as the lake was directly behind her head, it would do no good and besides, why should she deign to notice such things. After all, it was probably her, that bitch.

Inside her ceramic prison, her blood boiled. To think that while Heti – and all those arrayed before her in the circle, including her dear sister – had had to sacrifice so much while that scheming whore… Yes indeed, there was one continued absence from their noble circle that irked both Hetephernebty and Ahmose intensely:

Queen Merytaten-tasherit.

In the three years since they married, she had provided the pharaoh with no less than three children, two of them male. Tradition dictated that queens must undergo potisation one year after bearing a healthy male heir, and so why had this not happened to Merytaten-tasherit? If the sisters of the pharaoh had had to follow the absurd and barbaric customs of their ancestors, then why not his wife? Of course, they both knew the reason: their brother was merely a puppet, controlled by his lusty wife and domineering father-in-law. During private audiences – which were almost impossible to obtain since one or the other of the Sabus liked to be at his side at almost all times and most of the servants were in their pay too – the sisters urged Khaemweset to have the Queen undergo potisation for the good of the kingdom (and because they had both grown to detest the manipulative bitch) but he always made some lame excuse and their chance to influence affairs was virtually nil (that being half the point of the potisation ideal). So it was, that they had to suffer, while she swanned around, slept with servants and lived the life of freedom and ease. While they underwent the same ordeal of immobility, mindless chatter, and eternal boredom in the garden every day, Queen Merytaten-tasherit would swim in the lake or cavort on the lawns. It really was too much!

Still, looking at the potgirls around her, Heti realised that things could be worse. Aside from the ability to receive pleasure through her exposed breasts and womanly parts, she had other freedoms that some fathers or husbands had denied their possessions. Most of the noble potgirls had their lips pierced together through a series of golden rings. Fastened so, they were almost sewn together, although three of her companions had been forced to endure something even more severe, and thick golden thread literally did sew their mouths shut. Of course, nutrition could still be obtained in liquid form by passing a straw between the rings, but they could not speak and so were only passive observers to the proceedings, a status further emphasised by the fact that two of them had large golden balls lodged in their mouths that could be perceived through the gaps in the thread and the bulges in their young cheeks.

And one potgirl was even more strictly adorned. She had been married off by her parents to a particularly possessive husband who, worried that other men might be tempted by her beautiful visage, had her wear a blank golden mask over that face whenever out of doors, with only holes at the nostrils and mouth, and no facial features whatsoever, merely the hieroglyphics ‘Wife of Meriptah’ inscribed in their place. The hidden mouth too, was securely gagged. Silent, hidden and totally blind, she was in the world yet not. Heti could not imagine how such an existence could be endured, particularly since she had heard a rumour that her husband had also custom ordered noise-cancelling earplugs cast in gold for her, in order to shut out sinful chatter.

Those potgirls that could, were having their usual chatter (alas, none of it remotely sinful…) when, unexpectedly, a phalanx of soldiers appeared, accompanied by a captain. Without saying a word, to the astonishment of the servants standing behind their mistresses, a soldier was assigned to each potgirl who was carefully lifted and then carried off in his arms. What was happening? This was most unorthodox?!

Now looking off to see if the Queen was being escorted in a similar fashion, Heti saw one of the younger noble girls swimming in the pool instead, it must not have been her splashing about.

Heti wished she could see the burly warrior who was carrying her, but it would be unseemly to turn her head or even acknowledge his presence. Was he the one whom she had shared that little intimacy with earlier? Still, at least she could smell his manly odour and, when they passed by a mirror, she shot a glance at him and saw that, although it was a different guard, he was still handsome. Down below she felt warm and wet. What she would do for a real man to enter her rather than her porcelain toy!

They were all carried down the corridors and up the stairs into the private audience chamber of the pharaoh. Her brother was sitting there on his throne, two of his comeliest concubines at his feet. All three were smiling. Queen Merytaten-tasherit was nowhere to be seen. On either side of him were two vases shrouded in purple silk.

Once all the noble potgirls had been placed on pedestals, the pharaoh stood up and addressed them. “My dearest noblewomen, I have invited you here today in order to welcome two new additions to your little circle. I do hope you’ll make them both very welcome. Please, let me introduce my darling Queen Merytaten-tasherit and my equally-esteemed father-in-law Hepzefa Sabu.

All the potgirls gasped as the purple shrouds were removed to reveal the queen and the prime minister. Both though, were radically different in appearance from how they had formerly looked, for both had undergone potisation. Not only that, but Heti noted, with a sly feline smile, that both had also had their lips sewed tightly shut with golden thread while golden plates which looked reassuringly permanent covered the eyes of Hepzefa.

After the unveiling, they were all transported back into the water gardens. All, that is, save for the two princesses. When they were alone, Pharaoh Khaemweset II spoke with them.

“Dearest sisters, you warned me countless times about those snakes, but I did not heed you. However, late one evening, after a session of lovemaking with Isetnofret with whom I usually spend my Tuesday nights, she suggested that we go for a stroll through the gardens and, down by the riverbank, in among the grove of palms there, we heard some heavy breathing and muffled cries of ecstasy. Puzzled, I crept forward so as not to reveal my presence and there chanced across my wife copulating with a lowly gardener!

“This set my heart to great anger as you can imagine, and I was about to strike them both dead there and then, but my darling Isetnofret wisely counselled me against it and instead suggested that revenge is best left cold. As the wise and august pharaoh of this land, of course I perceived this to be the correct course, so I crept away and pretended I knew nothing of it. However, that very evening I employed Isetnofret as a spy to dig around for evidence of more infidelities of the queen. This she duly did but, in the course of her investigations, she also managed to obtain pictures and video footage of my shameless wife and her traitor of a father plotting against their pharaoh, their aim being to depose me, plant our infant son on the throne and then rule the country through him.

“With this damning evidence, I knew it was the time to act and so, last week, I invited them both to a banquet in celebration of the full moon and had Isetnofret drug their wine. They fell asleep within seconds, their faces full of horror as they realised that they had been outwitted by my magnificence. When they awoke they were as you see them now. Never again shall these two treacherous Sabu snakes threaten the one ordained by the gods!”

Both potgirls wept with joy.

Then, however, their brother’s face turned stern. “However, I have decided that things must not end there! I am pharaoh and as such, I should start stamping my gods-given authority on all my subjects. Which is why my eye has fallen on my two sisters, for my faithful Isetnofret has unearthed some disturbing evidence concerning the both of you but, in particular, you, my headstrong Heti. Evidence of you forcing the palace guards and maidservants to pleasure you in a most improper and unchaste manner. Unfaithful sis, how could you? I gave you freedom over the design of the vessel which was to bless your body for all eternity and you took advantage of my munificence and used that freedom to fulfil your wanton desires! Do you deny that this is true, Heti?”

His sister’s blushes told the pharaoh the full story.

“Well, I shall be lax and soft no longer. You are both fully-grown women now and as such you need to be wedded. I have found husbands for you both. You shall be married next month!”

Married? But how? And to whom?

 

Part 3

The Gift Offering: Part 1

The Gift Offering

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

Author’s note: This story is set in an alternative version of our world. Things there are much the same as our own except for the fact that Egypt as a country never adopted Islam (or Christianity). Therefore, it is still ruled by a dynasty that goes right back to the time of the Pharaohs or, to put it another way, it still is the time of the Pharaohs! The current ruler is Seti XXIII. Although Egypt is not a great power or empire, it is still independent, and it continues to cling to the old religion of its glory days. However, as the centuries have passed, diversions from the original vision have taken place. This story largely concerns one of those.

This story was inspired by the wonderful artwork and storytelling of Gammatelier, NoCoeur, and Jadow Star, in particular Gamma’s artwork and the marvellous tales The Ennui of Luxury and The Pot-Girl Museum. Before you click on those links though, I do recommend that you read this first as his stories kind of give the game away as to what to expect here. Indeed, as a homage to gamera’s tale, I have used a scene from that story, slightly reworked. I hope this does not offend. I have also used other snippets from his work as the two of three pictures in this story are ones from his work and so I needed the costumes to match exactly.

I have not written anything of this nature before. Do feedback what you think since, if you like it, there could be more.

Dave Potter

Part 1

Heti sighed as the professor droned on and on. Professor Ververgaert truly was the most boring of all her lecturers, but she needed to attend his lectures since his module was a mandatory one and, if she failed that, she’d have to retake the entire year. Not that she expected to; she was a bright girl and a hardworking student who everyone predicted to do well at Leiden University, just as she had excelled in high school. Even so, having to listen to him drone on about Herodotus was just mind-numbing. She glanced across to her friend Marijke but her head, like so many of their fellow students, was already on the desk and her breathing was deep. So much for the support! She’d be asking Heti to borrow her notes to catch up later tonight, again.

Eventually it finished and the students trooped out. Heti switched her mobile back on and, to her surprise, an email notification popped up:

“Come to the dean’s office right away.”

Puzzled – why would such an important person want to talk with her, a mere first-year undergraduate? – she told the now-awake Marijke that she’d see her later in the café and headed across the campus to the dean’s office. Once there, she introduced herself to the lady at the desk and was shown into the office itself. Inside sat the dean (whom she recognised from photos) and two men whom she did not recognise at all but, from their appearance, did not look like locals.

“Hetephernebty Klaasen?” he asked, using her full name.

“Yes?” she replied, confused.

“These gentlemen have come to see you. It is about something of the utmost importance.”

“Greetings Hetephernebty,” said the first man, standing up. “My name is Nebetka Ineni and I am the Ambassador of His Holy Highness the Pharaoh of Egypt to the Kingdom of the Netherlands. With me is my colleague, Inyotefoker Pentu, the Minister of the Interior.”

That explains the dusky appearance and the use of her full name she thought to herself. Now what can they want? She shook their hands and sat down.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. “I am not an Egyptian citizen as you know, although I am eligible through my mother.”

“Have you seen the news today, Hetephernebty?” asked the ambassador.

“No, I don’t follow it as a rule. Mostly fake.”

“This is not fake. Please, observe!”

The dean then switched on a TV that was behind his desk and turned it to one of the 24-hour news channels. The headline screamed out:

TRAGEDY IN EGYPT: ENTIRE ROYAL FAMILY WIPED OUT IN BLAST

As she watched, she learned that the family had been gathered for the Sokar Festival, one of the numerous celebrations dedicated to the Egyptian gods, and there had been an explosion. No one knew if it was an accident or deliberate. Some blamed Israel, others a homegrown terrorist organisation, others still postulated a gas leak. Whatever the case, all of them had been wiped out instantly.

“That is terrible,” she said finally, when the dean had switched off the screen. “However, how does it concern me? As I said before, I am not an Egyptian citizen.”

“Subject,” the ambassador corrected her. “Under His Holy Highness’ rule, we are subjects, not citizens. And no, you are not, yet. But your mother was. You know that she was of an Egyptian noble family, but left when she was a teenager on a skiing holiday in Switzerland, and lived undetected for several years in Europe before gaining refugee status here in the Netherlands and then marrying your father.”

“Of course, I know all that; I think about both of them every day and wish they were here. That is why seeing death saddens me so much. No one should have to endure what we did.”

“That is true, and they are noble sentiments, Lady Hetephernebty. However, did you also know that your mother was 142nd in line to the throne?”

“No, but why should I? Number 142 is hardly important, is it?”

“Under normal circumstances, no, but with the terrible tragedy that occurred this morning, should she still be alive, your mother would now be first in line. But, she is not; now that honour falls elsewhere. You, however, are now Number 2, which is why we came to see you. Your younger brother, Khaemweset is Number 1, while your sister, Ahmose is Number 3.”

“Oh my god!”

“As Egyptians we would say, ‘Oh, by the many gods!’ Princess Hetephernebty, but yes it is true. There is a plane waiting. We leave for Waset immediately.”

“But I can’t! My studies! My life in the Netherlands!”

“All, I am afraid, must cease. The needs of the kingdom…”

“But, with all due respect, I am not an Egyptian! I’m Dutch! I don’t want to go! My mum ran away from there for a reason, remember? You cannot force me as I am a Dutch citizen!”

“Hetephernebty,” butted in the dean with an apologetic look upon his face, “I’m afraid you must follow them. For reasons of international diplomacy, the Dutch government have rescinded your citizenship and, as we speak, your new Egyptian passport is being prepared. If they did not, it could cost millions in lost contracts, not to mention the fact that, without a royal family, Egypt could descend into anarchy and people could lose their lives.”

“So, my wishes don’t come into it?”

“Princess Hetephernebty,” said the interior minister, who had hitherto remained silent. “Your wishes are of no import; you are, as your name suggests, to become an offering to prevent war and promote prosperity. It is almost as if it were written in the stars, that your parents knew what the future held when they named you.”

Heti gave a start. Her full name meant ‘Gift Offering’. So that was to be her destiny? To be an offering to some country that she had never even visited.

And that her mum had deliberately run away from because she knew what they did to noble girls.


Following that momentous meeting in the dean’s office, Heti’s life changed irrevocably. She was whisked away from the university in a limousine with blacked-out windows to Schipol Airport where a private jet was waiting. Also waiting was her 16-year old sister Ahmose and her 18-year old brother, Khaemi, soon to become Pharaoh Khaemweset II. All three were shocked, but whereas she was upset, the younger two Klaasen siblings were excited about the new life they were about to enter. “We’ll be living in a palace, Heti!” cried Ahmose, clapping her hands.

“And I’ll be a king!” added Khaemi, smiling.

And they were right. When they arrived at Waset, the heat hit them like a wall as they descended from the plane. Even more astonishing though were the thousands of people who lined the road, bowing down to them as their limousine slowly made its way to the great palace where the pharaohs had dwelt for the past five hundred years. Once inside they were bathed and dressed in gorgeous outfits of flowing white cotton and adorned with gold and jewel-encrusted bracelets, anklets, necklaces and the like. All to represent the opulence that coursed through everything here in the palace. Their black hair was cut into the bob-cut fashionable in the pharaonic court and thick make-up applied to their faces. Even though she was still not happy, Heti had to admit that she looked and felt good.

disney egypt

The following day was both Khaemi’s coronation as pharaoh and his marriage to his new queen. Since the entire royalty and most of the nobility had been slaughtered in the blast – now determined to be due to a gas leak – choosing a bride had not been easy, but eventually a girl of eighteen from a very minor noble family named Merytaten-tasherit Sabu had been selected, largely because, although her lineage had not been strong enough for her to be at the Sokar ceremony, the family owned and ran the largest telecommunications company in the kingdom. Her father was powerful and there was a faction that said that his son, the 30-year old Rahotep, should have been made pharaoh, he being tenth in line but, unlike the Klaasens, a full-blooded Egyptian. The marriage was seen as a political attempt to placate the influential Sabu clan; after all, in this arrangement their grandson would become the next pharaoh following Khaemweset II. The ceremony was grand and opulent and the meal following, glorious, and even Heti had to admit that she rather enjoyed it all.

What she enjoyed far more though, was the life that followed. She was assigned two maidservants who followed her wherever she went and attended to her every need. She lived in a huge bedroom with a vast bed and dressed in the finest clothes and jewellery every day. During the sunny hours – and in Egypt every single day is sunny – she played with her sister in the vast water gardens by the Nile, while at night they listened to traditional music while lounging on couches, drinking fine wines and eating the tastiest morsels. No, with such a lifestyle, even Heti was convinced that maybe things weren’t so bad after all and, she almost forgot her previous existence as a Dutch student.

Almost, but not completely. At the back of her mind a doubt lingered. Her mum had run away from this place after all, and with good reason, and she was only a minor noble, not the elder sister of the pharaoh himself. The childless elder sister. At night as she tossed in her enormous bed, trying to cope with the heat after pleasuring herself, something she was doing more and more as her skin was constantly caressed by silks and satins, and so many beautiful, scantily-clad people surrounded her, doubts crept into her mind. She imagined herself facing the same terrible fate that her mother had had put before her. Where could she run to and how would she escape, if it came to that? But then, as her ears caught the lapping of the Nile waters against the river bank, she would relax. Seti XXIII was the pharaoh then, not Khaemweset II, her geeky, gawky little brother. It was true that both she and Ahmose were getting slightly concerned about the influence that Queen Merytaten-tasherit and her scheming father seemed to have over him, but Khaemi was a sensible, educated, Western-minded guy. The old ways held no attraction for him and, besides, what attraction did they hold for Egypt as a whole these days? After all, if it hadn’t been for that terrible custom, then the death toll at the Sokar Festival would have probably been half of what it was, if not less than that, and they wouldn’t have had to import a new royal family in from Holland, of all places.

No, those days were in the past and good riddance to them.

And with those reassuring thoughts, her mind would turn to something more pleasant; perhaps that hunky gardener, always stripped to the waist, whose job it was to clean the palm leaves out of the lake. What would it be like to have him in the bed with her, to have his rod – which she’d noticed straining under his loincloth – spring out and spread her lower lips.

And as she thought such sinful yet heavenly thoughts, her hand would stray downwards once again and she would be lost in ecstasy.


But then, some three months after their arrival in Waset, a servant came to the two sisters as they were playing in the water gardens and told them that their august brother, His Holy Highness Khaemweset II requested their presence in the throne room. They’d been seeing less and less of their brother as he became increasingly occupied with affairs of state – and, if the palace rumours were to be believed, by his young wife and countless concubines in the bedchamber – so they welcomed this opportunity to have a chat. However, when they arrived, they found him surrounded by his ministers, including the new prime minister, his wife’s father, all clothed in the full regalia of state.

“Dearest royal sisters,” he announced, after embracing both of them warmly, “I’ve summoned you here today to inform you that now is the time for us to really cement this new line of royal blood in our ancient kingdom by reinstating some of the old traditions.”

“What traditions might those be, Khaemi?” asked Ahmose.

“Why, the ancient and holy rite that let’s noble women like yourselves truly embrace your new status. Sisters, I have come to tell you that, this coming full moon, you shall both fully embrace your royal status by undergoing the rites of…”

“No! No, Khaemi, you can’t mean that!” cried Heti.

“Of course, I do, sister. It is the traditional way. All princesses and second-in-line…”

“Khaemi, what about mamma? Why do you think she ran away from Egypt in the first place and would never return?”

“Her shirking of her duties is a stain that should not be mentioned in this place. It…”

“It is barbaric, that is what it is! She could not bear it! I cannot bear it!”

“It is your duty, Princess Hetephernebty, as it is yours too, Princess Ahmose.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Ahmose, confused, for she had never been told why their mother ran away to Europe and was granted refugee status all those years ago.

But when she was told, the palace guards had to restrain her until she had calmed down enough to be led away.

 

Part 2