Muse 4 - Beyond Shame 1

As the details of the drawing progress, my thoughts go to the last time I woke up next to you in bed. You haven't used me for a day and a half. It's a disgrace! I put the book away, insert the plug and gently crawl back into bed to lick and suck your cock. You are already half hard and grow harder in my mouth.

When you're fully awake, you push your cock deep down my throat, after which you use my cunt. You ask me if I'm your horny fucking bitch, your slut, your whore, in a warm and caring voice that states the very opposite. 'Comme je les aimes tes mots sale.' It's wonderful to be your sex toy for a while, free of all responsibility and moral judgement, and I don't need to think about anything else but what you want from me.

---

This time Milena does surprise me in my sleep, already troubled with last night's horrific dinner. Waking up with her lips around my hardening shaft brings back memories. Bad memories. The last night with my mother. In my half awake state, I freeze, can't move, the sensation too shocking for me to comprehend. Just like then. I can only blink, staring at Milena as she awakens my cock with gusto.

She doesn't notice my dismay, and with slow, deep breaths I force myself awake and claw back to reality. It's okay. Even better, Milena accepts my convoluted relations with Claire and gives in to her own needs.

My anxieties dissipate when she offers herself. I leave my more sadistic desires for what they are. Claire's game with her father still paints a vivid picture in my mind. It doesn't stop me from humiliating Milena with words. We both know they are true and they show, however crudely, my appreciation for her surrender. The loud orgasm we share is a welcome reward, but the tender hugs and kisses afterwards chase away lingering ghosts of the past. If it weren't for the meeting with investors my staff prepared, I'd stay in bed, but their last night's efforts must not be in vain.

When I return to our suite later in the afternoon, Milena and I have the rest of the day to ourselves. Claire is out with a few of my ladies, prowling various boutiques and department stores in Cologne. As usual, after dinner with her father, she has no desire for my company, being the witness to her revenge. Despite her sinister intentions, she didn't indulge as much as usual, and limited herself to a couple of inventive inscriptions with a sharp knife.

With her journal on her lap, Milena sits in a deck chair on the large terrace of our suite. It overlooks the busy market square next to the cathedral, from which this guesthouse derives its name. Hôtel Dom, it says in large fading letters on the facade of our building. It's the tallest in a row that over the years became part of the establishment. The previous owner wrote the name in French and German, which does credit to the city's heritage.

France and Germany shuffled Cologne back and forth over the past century, resulting in a French-German mishmash. After Cologne fell under his rule, the emperor's first order was to rectify the street signs to proper German. The second was to build extensive fortifications around the city to ensure that mistake would not be made again. It wouldn't surprise me if the evolution theory classifies Europeans closer to wolves than apes. Predators at each other's throats when their territory grows too small for the effective deployment of scent markers.

"You look glum." Milena says as she turns to me, "Didn't the consultation with co-investors go according to your wishes?" Her dazzling smile and chases away my gloomy thoughts with her cheerful disposition.

I put down the two shoulder bags I'm carrying, bend over and kiss her. "Eventually. It took more time than I expected. Given the French roots of this city, I was hoping for a more substantial impact from the preliminary discussions conducted by my envoys."

She can't muster more than a narrowing smile for my business concerns. "Conversations that rendered your courtesans blue in the face, I suspect."

I chuckle. "Certainly, but the result is worth it. In time, Cologne will gain a new Hotel Dom. At the expense of this suite, unfortunately." In time indeed, I would funnel most of the money to the Palace's shortages before I'd ever spend a penny in the hotel. Building permits can be a bitch, especially if you fumble them on purpose. "You've already had lunch, I presume?"

"Yes, down at the square, Café du Dôme. A fine place to study people," she says, flipping through the diary to show her drawings: the theatre of daily life at the market.

"Nice work. You've captured those people well."

She flips back further. "How about this innocent dream prince?" She shows me a sketch she made while I was asleep. It's strange to see myself through her eyes, and considerably more flattering than the villainous mug I encounter in the mirror every morning. "An effeminate type, if you ask me. I wonder why you didn't complete it."

She chuckles and flips back to where she left off, continuing her sketch of a detail on the massive cathedral opposite our hotel. "Yesterday at the zoo it bummed me out I didn't have my diary with me. I hadn't sketched for quite a while."

"Have you been to the cathedral yet?"

"No, I wanted to do that together. To show you the cathedral through my eyes," she says, and with apt lines she captures a terrifying gargoyle in pencil. "What's in those bags?" she asks without looking up.

"Nothing to worry about for now. At least nothing as monstrous as what you're putting on paper."

She smiles, slams her diary shut and stows away her pencils. "It suits this book; it's full of monstrous affairs. When you come up with briefcases, cabin trunks, or bags, I've learnt to worry."

"Among other things, clothing, so we can go to places not open to the public," I say. "I assume you want to see the whole cathedral, and something to drink when we enjoy the view. After all, it's the tallest building in the world."

The cathedral's interior is, if possible, even more imposing than its exterior. Where it makes a massive, menacing impression on the outside, it's bright and airy inside, pleasantly cool after the hot bustle of the market square. The vaulted ceiling looms far above us and giant stained glass windows fill the place with colour. Silence prevails, the nave enforces it without feeling like an obligation. Attendees conduct conversations in hushed tones.

There are fewer visitors than usual, as the tall towers are currently closed off to the public. Monks are already preparing for the early evening mass, burning incense that dispels the stench of the city and its inhabitants.

"It's hard to believe people worked on this with love and attention for over six hundred years, isn't it?" Milena says with reverent awe. She is in her element. This is what she knows; this is where she is at home.

"Hard to believe is not a phrase that is appreciated here, I think. But if you put it that way, this building is brand new, completed only two years ago." I was at the inauguration party. Nobility obliged there as well, especially when the emperor himself invites you to celebrate a new national treasure. The heavenly ideal of loving your neighbour exchanged for the national ideal: pride in the accomplishments of the German empire. As if it mattered to the residents of Cologne whether they paid taxes to the French king or the German emperor. Milena has a point, though. Kaiser Wilhelm and Von Bismarck may have politicised the completion of the building, the anonymous generations of craftsmen had created a work of art, with imposing beauty down to the smallest details.

"An acquaintance of mine considers Gothic to be the highest form of architecture man has produced," I say. "According to him, everything that came after, repeated the previous with new techniques."

"I agree. Even if you don't believe in a sadistic supreme being, this building will humble you into silence," she says, as we arrive at an altar next to one of the mighty pillars supporting the nave. Milena lights a devotional candle in a glass cup and places it at the feet of Anthony of Padua. A popular saint, given the many candles that illuminate him.

I have mixed feelings about the image of a pious monk with a happy child on his arm. When she does a brief prayer at the foot of the altar, I put a candle in my shoulder bag and leave some coins in the collection box. "I suppose it is not customary to share your requests to the supreme one with your fellow man?" I ask when she stands up again and I offer her my arm.

"No, and not even the requests addressed to his confidants, but since I addressed it to St. Anthony, you must have some idea."

"That one had a broad scope, as far as I can remember. Women and children, marriage, travellers."

"Lost property, the poor, pilgrims and lovers," she adds. Arm in arm, we walk on.

"No wonder he's popular," I say

"You probably don't feel the need to say a prayer?"

"For all I know about the views of God the father, that would be more like informing a formidable adversary of my plans," I say and we stop in front of his son. "I can relate to him, though."

With a setting sun of gold leaf behind his cross, Gero's oaken Jesus looks down on us. He is used to it; he's been doing it for hundreds of years. Although looking is not the right word, for his eyes are closed. It is one of the few true-to-life depictions of his skin tone and hair, rather than the popular blond and blue-eyed demigod. Unlike many other depictions, he exudes a serene resignation. Surrender. To the pain in his hands and feet, the humiliation of his condemnation. Only then do I see it, the crucifix, the painting of the kneeling woman Von Bentheim acquired for me, and especially the work she made for me. Why did it take me so long to notice the connection?

"Come, I think you have something to confess," I say, and with my hand on her back, I steer her toward the richly decorated confessional further along. Except for an anxious look, she allows herself to be led.

"A lot, but that's not what I'm here for," she says. "Besides, I'd rather do it to my confessor." Her face clouds over with the implications of that looming event. "I think."

"Not to God or his minions, but to me," I say, and hand her one of the two bags. Besides, confessional booths also serve well as changing cubical. Whatever else I have in store for you, I assume you want to enjoy the view. You'll find the clothes required for this in the bag."

With no one noticing, I hold the door of the confessional booth open for her. She slips inside, and I occupy the cubical next to it, intended for the priest on duty. I dress myself in the robe appropriate to that position and open the hatch between the cubicles. "So sister, are all your other clothes in your bag?" I ask when the rustling of garments has ceased.

"Yes, but I think nuns usually wear underwear under their habit," she says from the other booth, "and they don't walk around in fashionable heels. You forgot the shoes and the undergarment, didn't you?"

I ignore her question with one of my own. "Have you decided if you're going to wear the crucifix that comes with the costume, or will you choose the plug after all?"

A nervous laugh. "It's one of two. Wearing both is too much of a sacrilege," she says and hesitates. "I'm not sure if I want to play our game here."

"Then stick with the crucifix for now. Although in your case it seems to carry the same meaning. Was the passion of Jesus your first encounter with your hidden desires?"

I hear her flounder on the bench. She remains silent.

"Milena?" I try cautiously.

"Scumbag," she whispers. Scumbag, not bastard.

"That's right, but it's you who wanted to visit the cathedral with me. Didn't it occur to you I might see the connection?"

She remains silent for even longer, except for her heavy breathing. With bated breath, I await her answer. This is something she has to bring forward herself. "You have your childhood; Claire has her monstrous father. I have no excuse. No poverty, no excesses. I had a happy childhood, loving parents, a pious upbringing." Her whispered tirade falters.

"Does it matter?" I ask softly. "Does there have to be an excuse for your desires?"

"Apparently, because why else am I so ashamed of myself?"

"You've already answered that question. You are not supposed to enjoy the suffering of Jesus. Certainly not as a devout girl from an affluent family with loving parents. Visiting this building confronts you with it."

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, then? That you enjoy doing what you do with me?"

It is my turn to fall silent and choose the right words without violating the truth. "When I think about my first experiences, I'm not ashamed of what Anna and I did, because we both wanted to play the game, but I wished I could sink into the ground when they caught us. Of how everyone viewed me: sick, inferior, perverted. Sometimes I'm still embarrassed when I find myself amongst those that strive to live up to the norm. Then I'm lonely, an outsider, an eccentric. It is why I adopted the role of jester, or gather people around me with similar preferences and ideas. In the end, no human being conforms to the norm. Everyone has a deviant cross to bear. There are plenty of excuses imaginable for yours."

"I don't see them," she says with a sad whisper.

"You can take comfort in the thought that you are one of many who, raised as a good Catholic, struggles with the confusion between suffering, surrender and redemption. You are no longer the girl who got excited by the passion of Jesus and felt guilty about it. Between then and now lies a lifetime of experiences that made you the person you are. Yes, you have desires that deviate from the norm, but the origin of those desires doesn't need to be dark and negative. Sometimes they are just caused by the strains of daily life."

"Like what?"

"You run a large and important household, organise galas for charities. People around you look up to you as a role model or are subordinates. I can imagine you long to relinquish control and leave all decisions to someone else. And related to this, you're forced to hide your emotions under a mask of perfection and self-assurance. Nobility obliges. How liberating is it not to comply with the ideal image that others have of you? Or to escape the routine of everyday life? Instead of knowing what's awaiting you in the coming months, you have no idea what's in store for you. Do you want more reasons?"

"I want to know what's in store for me."

That question is harder to answer than she may think. I had devised a scene in the tower, but her confession renders my scenario much riskier than I had envisioned. The risk of running up against her limits. It's a risk with a reward. When she uses her word of grace, it will show her she can trust me to end the scene. "If you choose to wear the plug and hand me the crucifix, punishment for your youthful sins and the redemption that comes with them will follow. If you don't, we will enjoy a good glass of wine and the view from the tower. After that, it's time for Mass."

---

I don't know if I want this; if I have the courage to do this. You leave me the choice, as you once promised. I choose the plug, not the crucifix. Punishment for a twelve-year-old girl, struggling with the enticing fantasy of hanging on the cross herself. I was never able to confess it to anyone, but by bringing you here, I unconsciously did. A sin that is not really a sin, but one I am still ashamed of to this day. That you are perceptive enough to see it earns you my trust. You know me better than I know myself. I leave the confession booth and hand you the crucifix.

You guide me with your hand on the small of my back to the entrance of the south tower. I keep my head bent toward the floor, as the cool stone tiles pass under my bare feet. Closed for the public, it says on the door to the stairs. We are no longer members of the public and you lock the door behind us.

Ahead of you I walk up the endless stairs, a punishment in itself. Through the small windows in the outer wall, I hear rattling carts and windblown shouts of stallholders trying to sell their goods before the market closes. Further away, a train is crossing the Rhine, thundering over the steel bridge. With every step upward, daily life fades below us.

The view must be spectacular, but I don't pay it any attention. Despite the altitude, it's not cold, because of a light, balmy breeze. We end up inside the giant spire that crowns the tower. Thousands of decorated openings in its sides are lit by the late afternoon sun, as if we entered a giant kaleidoscope.

"Those clothes don't suit you, take them off," you whisper behind me. You're right, in more ways than one, and I do as you instruct. Without embellishment, without trying to seduce you. This is not the time for such antics. I stand in the middle of the floor, bare but for my collar, the plug and flecks of sunlight playing over my skin. Now I'm naked, the wind is chilly, but it doesn't bother me.

With rope, you tie my wrists behind my back, with a large loop between them, dangling over my buttocks down my thighs. You stand in front of me and swipe my windblown hair out of my face, kiss my forehead and put a blindfold over my eyes. After that, you're doing something laborious. At least, I suspect so, judging by your breathing when you appear behind me again.

You strap my hair with a loop, throw the ends of the rope over something above me, and tie them to the cuffs around my wrists. Then the rope tightens. It pulls my arms up behind my back, bending me over while the other end pulls my hair tight. Pulling my hair always triggers something in me, and when you use it like this, securing me with no escape, I sink deep into my mindless daze.

You leave me standing like this for a while, before you tighten the rope a little further and force me on my toes to avoid a tearing pain in my shoulders. Trembling on the tips of my toes, all the muscles in my legs taut, I panic over the threat of severe pain in my shoulders if I slacken for even a moment. Tears fill my eyes. I'm never going to keep this up. "I can't do this," rages like a mantra in my head.

Before I cry out, you support me and pull the knot holding my wrists together. My arms swing apart behind me as far as the loop allows, and I hang limp like a crucified figure in the ropes. It feels like floating after the torture before. I lean further forward, pushing my buttocks back, finding my balance between the ropes pulling on my hair and my arms. "Enough crucifixion," you whisper in my ear, "time for a bit of purgatory."

The sound of you lighting a match, followed by the smell of melting wax from a devotional light. The warmth of the candle comes as no surprise. Its flame caresses my belly and breasts. I long for your touch, any touch, anything!

You provide. Hot drops fall on my back and buttocks. Heat burning my cold skin, painful for a moment but waning as the wax cools solid. You hold the candle closer and closer to my skin and the drops become hotter and hotter. I float away deeper still and I even tilt my pelvis so the burning sensation of candle wax drips down my lower back and along my labia. I'm totally out of touch, although I occasionally catch on to what you tell me.

Did you punish me with your fingers, working my cunt, feeding my desire without satisfying it? Or did you first put clamps on my nipples? I'm too far gone to remember the details. Everything you do almost causes me to explode with lust. I want to serve you from the depths of my soul, no matter what you would ask. But you stopped asking anything, you just punish me, now with a whip of leather strips.

Even though for a moment there is a stinging pain as the strips swing around my legs, I can take it, even genuine pain. In fact, I want to feel it, each stroke adding to my arousal. I want the whip to hit my breasts, my nipples crushed in clamps, my outstretched buttocks, my dripping cleft, even though I haven't done anything wrong. I don't deserve punishment. I need it.