Chapter 17: Ilse Is Coming Home

We moved Northwest on July 1st. We were going back home. Home for me and Koen. Jutta would leave her home. And her hotel. Would you leave your house, your friends, your supermarket, your livelihood for love? Few people do. An American consortium, seeing possibilities in Edelweißhafen, bought the hotel. Not the Kinky Club Kinta. When it comes to sex, American attitudes and behaviours often appear odd and inconsistent to outsiders. Their behaviour toward us, as if we were criminals simply for owning a club such as ours, was appalling, yet their eyes constantly wandered around our equipment, and me, unable to resist its allure.

They paid a good price for the hotel, all things considered. The argument between Koen and Jutta was as inevitable as it was predictable. Koen telling her to keep her money in a safe account and to herself, Jutta telling him she was his, and all her possessions were therefore his. Jutta’s Pyrrhic victory led to the opening of a new bank account in Koen’s name; however, there was no question that Jutta would be the one to benefit from it.

The day prior to our departure, a moving company arrived to gather all the belongings that Jutta wished to bring to our new home. Jutta said she didn’t want to take much with her, well ... let’s say there was no space for air left in that truck moving towards The Netherlands.

I watched closely as Jutta moved slowly through the empty hallways, her fingertips trailing along the wallpaper she had chosen decades ago. The scent of polished wood and faint traces of lavender cleaner lingered in the air, familiar yet already beginning to fade.

Each room she passed must have held echoes of laughter, whispered conversations, and hurried footsteps. I saw her pause at the grand staircase. Was she remembering the countless times she had stood there, greeting guests, watching families arrive and depart, measuring the seasons not by a calendar but by the changing faces that passed through her doors?

This place had been more than a business to her—it had been her life’s work, her second home, maybe even her truest one.

By the time she reached the front desk, her hand trembled as she smoothed its polished surface. I hugged her from behind. I felt her exhale slowly.

“Je hebt de juiste keuze gemaakt,” I whispered in her ear. After my months of lessons, she understood Dutch well enough to understand she had made the right choice. My strong Mistress. I was so proud of her.

“Nostalgia isn’t just a feeling — it is a presence, an old friend pressing against me like reluctant to say goodbye. But I know I already carry this hotel with me, not in my hands, but in the spaces it has carved into my heart,” Jutta said. After that, neither could keep it dry. Words can do that for you.

Jutta was sitting with me in the back of our BMW. She had sold her own car to a friend. For a friendly price. These last days had put such a strain on her, it didn’t take long for her to fall asleep. With her head on my shoulder, we drove north. Jutta finally woke up after three or four hours.

“Where are we?” She asked Koen.

“On the road.” A Koen answer if ever there was one.

“This is not the road heading towards the Netherlands”, Jutta said.

“God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road.”

I saw Jutta was getting really irritated by Koen’s evasive answers. She didn’t know yet that if Koen really didn’t want to say something, he probably never would. To distract her, I put my head on her lap. She smelled delicious. No one in the world smells as good as my mistress. She caressed my bald head in the most loving way possible. It was somewhere in the middle between a caress and a massage. I breathed a sigh, feeling completely content and at peace. Mission accomplished.

Mistress Jutta and I both understood at the same time that we were on our way to the Weber ranch, Martin and Helga’s home. That is one of the reasons I still love Koen with all my heart. The last time he made this trip must have left a traumatic experience in his soul. And yet we were heading here so Jutta could see her daughter again. It was Koen’s way of saying: I understand you are feeling sad, and I want you to feel better. A typical male thing to do; acting instead of thinking or talking, but it was so sweet of him. Of all men, he is the most gentle man I know.

Memories weighed heavily on this place for all of us. They were kind enough, Martin and Helga, yet there was a palpable distance between us and them. Jutta talked for over an hour with her daughter Ilse. She was coming home - our home - in somewhat over a month. We didn’t stay long. We exchanged pleasantries and were heading home at last. Jutta and I talked about what she had discussed with Ilse. She looked fine. She looked better than fine, self confident and radiant were the words her mother used.

Some days go by just like any other day. Another Monday or Thursday. A day filled with the mundane and ordinary, lacking any significant events that would make it stand out in your memory. This day was none of those. The kitchen calendar displayed a prominent circle around the date Ilse was supposed to come home to us. After a year-long ‘internship’ with our German ‘friends’, Martin and Helga, she would finally return ‘home’.

Jutta was nervous. One month before the wedding. Jutta, my mistress, the epitome of patience and compassion, was tense as a tightrope walker in a windstorm. She’d been in a constant state of nervous agitation during those last few days, her unease manifesting as both jittery nerves and a prickly irritability. She had been so edgy that Koen took her the day before yesterday to the attic and she returned from it with a fiercely red butt. And cum dripping down her leg. When I offered my tongue to clean it up, she portrayed my words as a deliberately rude and insulting remark aimed at her. Honestly, I wouldn’t have objected or cared one bit if Koen had also managed to redden her tits as well.

Ever since the start of the week, I have been cleaning the house with such fervour that one might believe the Queen herself was due to arrive for afternoon tea. Right behind me the whole time, Jutta meticulously examined every ridge and surface, searching for any trace of dust or grime. Her short temper did not bother me because I empathised with her emotional state, given that I hadn’t seen my son Peter for quite some time following that terrible incident.

Friday finally came. Jutta was all dressed up to the nines. Koen had promised to pick Ilse up from Schiphol International Airport. Jutta had to stay home with me. Putting his foot down is not something Koen does often, but when he does, his determination is apparent. In a twisted way, it’s entertaining to see that Jutta is still struggling to figure out the right times to get what she wants from him and when she should give up on manipulating him. Sometimes she goes on and on, and I know right from the start the outcome of their argument.

“Why can’t I go with you? I suspect she will be waiting for me to show up at the airport.”

“Because I say so,” Koen said calmly.

“But I want to see her!”

“And you will, as soon as she comes here.”

“I am still waiting for a single, valid reason why I am forbidden to accompany you.”

“You have two choices, Little One. Either you accept you are staying here and concentrate on baking something nice for your daughter, or I will lock you up naked in the cage upstairs and she can visit you there in the evening. Now that I think of it, it’s not a bad...” Koen said with an annoyed expression on his face.

“No, Master, I would love to stay here, and make her favourite Apfelstrudel.” Jutta quickly cut her losses.

“That’s a pity. I would love you to spend some time in the cage. Perhaps I am far too lenient with you, Little One. I don’t want you to think I’m starting to get soft.”

“The master’s will be done.” Jutta said, her head bowed in the most lovely submissive way. If I was a man, I would have a hard on seeing her like this.

“Don’t forget it, Little One. I’m running late, so I must go, but remind me we’ll come back to this.”

“Yes, Master.”

We heard the BMW turn from the driveway to the road and drive away. Jutta breathed more easily now.

“Why do you think he doesn’t want me there to meet her, slut?” In need of guidance, she asked for my advice. Welcome to the dynamics of our lifestyle.

“Perhaps there is something he wants to discuss with her before she comes here, mistress.”

“Of course,” she said, his voice tight with suspicion, “but what on earth could he want to discuss with her on the way back?”

“No.” I said.

“What ‘no’? Besides, who gave you permission to informal speech, whore?” She only called me a whore when she was upset.

“I am sorry mistress, I beg for forgiveness. I meant ‘no mistress, it is not what you think’. Master Koen is too old.”

“So, enlighten me, precisely what thoughts do you suspect are currently traversing the landscape of my mind?”

“Koen would never add her to his harem, mistress.”

Her facial expression was a clear indication of her inner thoughts, making it obvious what she was trying to hide what she was really thinking. While not explicitly denying the suggestion, she responded with a questioning tone, “You don’t think so? What on earth could be important enough to discuss without me, then?”

“It could be several things, mistress. She comes back from a year in isolation to a strange country, and to a strange house. It is so typical Koen that he wants to reassure her. He may also want to hear from her what she thinks about his relationship with her mother. If she has problems with that, he wants to be the first to address them before she comes to you. He is a protector, mistress. Probably his inclination will be to safeguard you from experiencing the full force of her unfiltered emotional reaction.”

“I was so looking forward to it. It’s damn hard to act submissive when you’re angry.”

“Perhaps mistress can take out her frustration on me?” I said and lowered my eyes in humility.

Jutta laughed and caressed my head. “What an enticing idea, slut. But maybe we should spend our energy on making the most delicious apple strudel we’ve ever made.”

So we did. Early in the afternoon, we heard Koen coming back. Jutta wanted to run outside, but changed her mind at the last moment and stayed indoors, waiting for them to get in. We had discussed what would be an appropriate way to greet them. We had decided on sitting on our knees with our hands folded behind our back, thus presenting our tits proudly. Jutta protested at first when I suggested being completely naked.

“She has seen us both without clothes on, and Koen also knows what we look like in our birth costumes. It will please Koen that we are so obviously his servants.” That argument seemed to weigh the most, because here we were, sitting next to each other like sisters. Slave sisters. Jutta’s large breasts proudly pressed forward. Mine tiny in comparison. She with long hair, me with none. Jutta with love in her eyes, Me...? With devotion? Pride?

Ilse was a different woman since the last time I saw her. The girl was gone, replaced by a young woman clearly shaped by Helga. Her brown hair, the colour of rich chestnuts, fell in soft, tousled waves just past her shoulders. It was the kind of hair that always looked effortlessly perfect, whether it was tied up in a loose ponytail with a few strands escaping to frame her face or left down. Her bangs were slightly uneven, as if she’d trimmed them herself in front of the bathroom mirror, and they brushed just above her eyebrows, giving her a playful, approachable vibe.

Her light brown eyes were warm and inviting. Long, natural lashes, which fluttered when she laughed, framed her eyes. Her gaze was steady and kind, with a hint of submissiveness in them. Her face was delicate, with high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose that gave her an air of youthful innocence. Fair was her skin, and her make-up was flawless. Not the make-up of a whore, like Helga taught me. Her make-up was young and subtle, like she was wearing none at all. She was on the skinny side, her frame lean and almost willowy, with long limbs that moved with a quiet grace. Her hands were slender, her fingers nimble, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. Purple high heels peeked out from under her low-slung jeans. She didn’t look glamourous. There was something about her that felt familiar, like the comfort of coming home after a long day. Some features were clearly hereditary. I could almost feel the pride that Jutta radiated. I have to give Jutta credit for remaining completely still; she didn’t move a muscle, nor utter a single word.