Chapter 3: To Amsterdam

On some days it’s difficult to live with a couple that are in the honeymoon stages of their relationship. I don’t mind them showing affection to another frequently, or even them fucking in my presence, but they are learning now to get to know each other. What makes the other one tick, and what puts them off? I have to keep quiet as I see the frustration builds up in my mistress as she simply doesn’t understand why my master reacts the way he does. Problem is, of course, I know exactly why Koen reacts that way. So I have to watch how their misunderstanding escalates. Today was a good example. We were planning on getting a tattoo in Amsterdam. From the studio of a Dutch master tattoo artist. He was one of the best, unfortunately he can’t do it anymore, but the artists that work there are world class tattooists. His shop on the Ceintuurbaan in the heart of Amsterdam is as famous as he is. That was the reason we woke up early. We are always up early, but now ... extra early.

“Take my car to Amsterdam. The BMW is quite comfortable for long trips,” Koen said.

“I feel more at home with in my car. I will tie the slut up and take her to Amsterdam like a small package in the car’s boot.”

“No, you’re not.” Koen reacted without a second thought.

“What do you mean?” Jutta asked. I almost smiled at the question mark on her face. I wouldn’t have minded going to Amsterdam in the boot of her car. Being treated as an object is humiliating and exciting at the same time. Having no idea and no say in what would be engraved on my skin today left me with enough to think about during the trip, anyway. I also knew it would never happen. Koen would not go for that, not in a million years.

“Koen, she is my slave, you know. You will have to trust me to know what is best for her.” Jutta said gently.

“I’m giving you a lot of leeway with how you handle her, love, but this is a hard limit. She is not going in the car’s trunk.” Look at his face, girl. If you see these lines on his forehead, you will know you cannot win this fight.

“I see no reason why not. The trunk has an open connection to the rest of the car, so there is no way she could suffocate in there.” Jutta persisted.

“Jutta, that will not happen. I’m serious.”

“But I took her from Martin’s farm in the back of your Transit van before, so what is the difference?”

“You can tie her up in the Transit, but not in the boot of a normal car.”

“You’re fully aware of my aversion to driving your Transit.”

“Jutta, do I have to remind you that you are my slave, and if necessary I will forbid you to go with slave Sylvia to Amsterdam?” Stupid thing to say, Koen.

“O, God. You are going to pull this ‘I am the master’ card on me over this? You are not serious, are you?” Of course he is, silly girl.

“Only if I need to,” Koen said. He clearly did not know what to do with the situation. He tried to navigate between Jutta’s autonomy and the ultimate responsibility he felt for me. And he was failing miserably. All I could do was watch them. I was in the corner of the room, in the nude, standing with my arms behind my back. Waiting for them to kiss and make up. Or fuck up. Pun intended.

“Last warning, little one,” Koen said to Jutta. In a huff, she stormed out of the room. Koen looked at me. I just closed my eyes. There was nothing to gain in getting involved in their fight. I heard him leave as well. Twenty minutes later, I heard a lot of grunting and the sounds of flesh against flesh. Trouble had left the building. Standing over an hour without moving is not so easy at my age, but I kept at it as well as I could. Without an apology for letting me stand there for so long, Jutta collected me and took me to her bedroom. In there, she dressed me in a black lacy see trough top and a black miniskirt. Small black socks in leather boots just below the knee. No underwear, of course. I did not know if I had any here at her home.

“Permission to speak, mistress.”

“Go on.”

“Am I allowed to lick you clean before we leave, mistress? Please allow me to suck and lick the master’s cum from your delicious pussy.”

“Another time, my cum slut, I will just hop in the shower quickly, then we can get going. It’s going to be a long trip.”

I was riding up front and right from centre and not in the back of the car. This was the first time I was not on the backseat of the car and one of the few times I was free from ropes while in the car. We drove in silence for a while. It was not my place to start talking. That was perhaps the most difficult thing in being a good slave. I love to talk. Mistress Jutta was far too strict about not talking without asking for permission first. Result of that was that I was more silent than I had ever been. It was one of the hard things I had to face as a 24/7 slave. But I tried with all that was in me. Perhaps I was a bad girl, but I needed to be a good slave.

As if she was reading my mind, Jutta said suddenly, “We need to talk freely and openly, little one.” I cannot recall Jutta ever referring to me as Sylvia; she always calls me slut or whore. Little one. It meant a lot that she now called me by the pet name that Koen always used for her.

“Yes, mistress.”

“During this trip we are not mistress and slave but just two girls who share the same man.”

“With all due respect, mistress, I would prefer if I could still refer to you as mistress and we remain in high protocol. I promise to answer you honestly, mistress, as I always do.”

“This is not going as I hoped it would be, but will have to do, slut. Tell me honestly. Do you think deep in your heart and soul, this polyamory relationship we are having will work in the long term?”

“No, mistress.”

“Full sentences, slut. Why not?”

“There are so many reasons even vanilla polyamory relationships fail, mistress. I hardly know where to start.”

“You start and I will add some of my own concerns.”

“A couple that is been together a few weeks ago is living with the ex-wife of the man and both women know he is still half in love with his ex.” I said.

Instead of getting angry, Jutta smiled and said playfully, “His new wife is his slave and property and the ex-wife is the property of his new love.”

I was getting into this. “His first slave is this soft-natured submissive and has the task of keeping a pain slut of an ex-wife in check. That is totally against her nature, just like it is against the nature of the ex-husband.”

“Two couples have known each other since childhood, the other couple shorter than a year,” Jutta added.

“Does mistress want to know why Master Koen was so pertinacious about the trunk today?” I changed topics.

“Enlighten me,” Jutta sighed.

I looked at her from the side. She concentrated on the road as she was trying to overtake a few cars. Her driving was so much faster than I was used to with Koen. She was really pretty. At that moment, I realised for the first time I might fall in love with this woman.

“Has Koen told you about the death of his parents?”

“No. Does it have anything to do with our argument this morning?” Jutta asked.

“Everything. I will never forget that night the police came to our door. It was past midnight, and we were getting ready for bed. When you see two police-officers at your doorstep, you know that something is terribly wrong. After all these years, every word of that late-night visit echoed in my memory, sharp and clear, as if it had just happened.”

“Good evening, I am senior officer Van Houten and this is my colleague, Vlietstra. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. According to our data, your parents are Lea and Jeroen de Groen?” Koen just nodded, frozen.

“There has been a pile-up on the A12 today because of a wrong-way driver. I’m afraid that both of your parents did not survive the crash.” Vlietstra said.

“Did they hit the ghost rider?” I asked. Koen just stood there, pale as death.

“I am sorry to say they were the ones entered the A12 near Waterberg the wrong way. It was dark and raining. There were also road works which may have made the entrance confusing. Within 200 meters of the entrance of the road, they crashed into another car. Your parents’ car caught in flames and that made identification difficult.”

“How? My dad was a careful driver, he would never enter the highway like that!” said Koen.

“We have spoken to the people from the party they had left. It seems that both of your parents had been drinking a quite a bit, perhaps too much. People don’t think they were drunk, but just a bit tipsy. His boss tried to convince him to take a taxi, but your father insisted on driving himself. He seemed quite clear at that moment. There is no way we can establish that alcohol played a significant role in this accident, but we cannot rule that out either.” Officer Van Houten said.

“And ... the car they crashed into?”

“The family of four never had a chance. The occupants of that car all died instantly.”

“Later on, the newspaper accounts revealed that the car’s other passengers were a family unit, consisting of a mother, father, and their two children, a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old. The blaze, fuelled by the car’s engine, devoured Koen’s parents’ car, leaving it a charred wreck. Witnesses claimed they heard screams from their car engulfed in flames. The police declared Koen’s parents perished immediately, but he refused to believe this. We buried them a few days later. The thought of the charred remains of his parents lying in those two coffins was unbearable for Koen. His parents had supported and guided him in everything he did, even when he was very young. The way he was raised instilled in him the self-confidence that I found so charming when he was a teenager. His father had been the embodiment of sainthood in his eyes.

“It’s common knowledge that most men strive throughout their lives to earn their fathers’ approval. Koen had to confront now the horrifying reality: his father had not merely killed himself and his wife, but had also caused the deaths of an innocent family, the image of their shattered lives haunting him. It would have been easier if the driver of the other car had been drunk.

“My eldest child was only 3 weeks old, and Koen’s mother had seen their first grandchild only once. His father had planned to see him the week he died. My boy Peter kept him sane. He poured all the love he could muster, a love that was as deep as the ocean and as vast as the sky, into his child.