Chapter 2

Sylvia’s confession started a new..., well, we fucked like college kids. We didn’t dive into chains and collars, ropes and butt plugs, if that’s what you hoped for. ‘Be dominant’ is the same as ‘Be funny’. It’s not something you can force. Although we had done this before, calling your wife with whom you have shared joys and sorrows a filthy slave, your cock hungry slut, your whore, is something that doesn’t come naturally to me. Even if she uses those words to refer to her slave persona, those are her words, not mine. While it may be acceptable for individuals of colour to use the n-word to describe themselves, it does not grant me the same permission. This is no different. To call her names out loud was a threshold I needed to cross. Someday. But not today. This is my wife I have cherished for the longest time we are talking about.

“Come here, slut, and undress quickly before I rip your clothes off, you filthy whore!” Would you say that tomorrow to your wife, regardless of how long you have been married? I have no idea what it feels like to be a pea in a pot, but Sylvia and I ... We have been really close over the years. Even more so after I had sold my business and retired. Four years too early. Our government believes 67 is an appropriate age for retirement. A group of young engineers, my son one of them, had been interested in buying my business.

When I sold my business in January, I had this dream of living self-sufficient. These last months I renovated the old farmhouse. A new kitchen, new bathroom, a lick of paint, you know how it works. Despite that, I possessed this land, and I had allowed it to deteriorate a little. I needed a new roof, solar panels, my own well, an extensive vegetable garden, fruit trees and such. For privacy reasons, I want a row of trees on the left side of the field and a wide ditch of about four metres on the right side. The earth that came out of the ditch of the moat would become a beautiful wall that hid our garden from view. The local municipal council had agreed with my plans and the final stage was the granting of a permit. It fit perfectly with their plan to give the river into which my ‘canal’ would end more room now that it was raining much more these days because of climate change. The plans I’ve had for a while have remained unfulfilled because I’ve lacked the time and money.

There were lots of reasons Sylvia stopped teaching after the summer break. One of them was that we wanted to spend more time together. Americans call it quality time. It’s such a pity the word has lost its original meaning because of overuse and exaggerated use. But if you are both past the 60 year mark, each moment of time together really counts as quality time. Additionally, the new work location would require her to spend more time commuting. But the real reason was more likely I said yes to her year of debauchment.

Sylvia had spent 36 years teaching a high school class. It was time to take the plunge. She submitted her resignation. If you assume that the school would be generous towards a teacher who had faithfully served it for her whole life, think again. Despite her 35-year tenure, they refused to let her leave after the summer break and insisted on an unreasonable severance period. We had to resort to legal threats so that they would reluctantly release her. Although it wasn’t the farewell she had expected, she felt thrilled to begin what she referred to as the grand art of idleness.

Sylvia is a wonderful cook. She can make something special out of the most ordinary ingredients. Her splendid dinner filled the air with mouthwatering aromas. Sylvia broke the silence. “The attic or the basement?”

I just looked at her. “What?”

“Do you want to build your dungeon in the attic or in the basement, Master?”

I should have known. “You want me to build a playroom?” By repeating her question and refusing to acknowledge my answer, she effectively conveyed that it was a foolish response.

“While the basement may have a dungeon-like atmosphere, it is now the designated area for housing all the mechanical installations, gas and water valves, and all that stuff. We need to declutter the attic, but it only holds things that should have been thrown away a long time ago.” Sylvia said, “The steep loft ladder is a challenge, but it guarantees privacy and offers a lot of space because it runs over the entire house.” Sylvia said.

“It appears you have already chosen.” I noticed.

“Is it possible, Master, we move in by the first of October?”

“For a subbie, you can be quite coercive.” I said.

“Master, I apologise. With excitement building within me, I am eagerly looking forward to starting my year of submission.”

“That will give me three weeks to build the playroom. That’s cutting it close, don’t you think?”

“Sir,” she calmly explained, “sometimes we can start without everything being perfectly in order.”

“I know you have thought this through for a long time by now. What do you think we will need in the playroom?”

“Yes, I have thought about it, Sir and I will elaborate in a moment, but please, can you avoid the euphemism playroom? I care little about the word ‘play’. It’s not play to me, Sir. I have thought about this for years now. The right moment to discuss how I felt about it never presented itself. What I yearn for is a way of life. In and outside the dungeon. To me, it’s more than just putting on a show; it feels like coming home. I have suppressed that side of me for a long time, and now I have the possibility of letting it all out. I want to live the experience 24/7, Sir.”

“How do you want me to call it then?”

“May I request you to give it a name, Sir? Man cave, dungeon, hell’s attic, whatever. I don’t care. The only thing I’m sensitive about is the name. Playroom. I will leave the rest up to you, Sir. How to you want to build my dungeon?” Sylvia said.

“We have to buy some stuff, I think. Have you already looked on Amazon or any of these stores?” The commerce behind Kink is earning a fortune on all that suddenly popular stuff. All these people that have fallen in love with E. L. James’ Fifty Shades are curious enough to buy anonymously online cheap stuff from China. Nipple clamps that work only once, floggers that fall apart and cheap butt plugs you cannot clean properly. But they are not the only ones that make money out of this. The higher quality kink-industry profits from this hype as well.

“I don’t want to buy stuff online, Master. I want good quality materials and I want to see them, feel them and try it on before we spend too much money.”

“The online stores have eliminated most of the sex stores in the street, little one. I don’t fancy driving all around the country just to buy some bondage materials.”

“I have seen ads from a shop called ‘Kink Paradise’ in Germany. It’s only six hours from here, but it’s supposed to be THE place to go. We might come across all kinds of good ideas, Master.”

“Master?”

“I wanted to know how the sound tasted in my mouth, Sir,” Sylvia said. She browsed on her phone. There is no chance that her phone could accidentally fall to the ground. She always keeps it in her hand because it is securely glued there. On the small screen, she showed me the logo of Kink Paradise. It seemed like an enormous store, three stories high. From the outside, it looked more like Home Depot than a seedy sex shop.

One of the tremendous benefits of not having to work anymore is the freedom to travel to Germany on a weekday, without being limited to busy weekends. So we went to Kink Paradise on Wednesday next.

“Master, permission to ask a question?”

“What is it, girl?”

“Can we take the Transit to Germany?”

“Why would we do that, girl? The BMW on the Autobahn would allow us to reach our destination much quicker. The van is not suitable for long journeys. It doesn’t even reach speeds of 100 km and is more than a bit uncomfortable.”

“I transferred my savings to my checking account, Sir. I plan for us to purchase a plethora of items there. We could do that later online as well, but the reason for us going there is to see what the quality of the goods is. So if we buy voluminous items, we need the van.”

The thought of crawling along the Autobahn in a noisy car filled me with dread. Our asses would be sore by the time we were halfway. Her reasoning was undeniably logical, and I couldn’t argue against it. The drive itself was uneventful. Being Dutch, we are not used to drive for a long time. You can cross the Netherlands from west to east in some two hours, from north to south in a little over three. We took a few breaks and ended up in more than one traffic jam. We left home on a Friday and planned to be back Sunday night. Sylvia made reservations in hotel Blumbergen, more like a small picturesque inn.