Muse 4 Beyond Shame 2

It's been a while since I continued posting chapters, but don't worry, the story is finished and translated. Due to your kind and positive reactions, I paused posting chapters to investigate possibilities of self publication. I plan to do so shortly, but will continue posting the second half of the novel here.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. © All Rights Reserved.

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The journey to Meiningen, July 31

"Are you careful with her?" Claire asks.

Milena is standing further away, dressed in a demure summer dress. She can't hear us above the racket surrounding the platform that looks more like a building site. The growing rail traffic outpaced Cologne's central station's ability to handle it. Construction of an expansion is ongoing, resulting in, if possible, even greater chaos.

"Don't worry, I have her best interests at heart," I say.

"Also regarding yourself, I mean," Claire says.

"Yes mom, see you in two weeks." I spread my arms. "Hug? Or are you too old for that by now?"

For a moment, she hesitates, only to fly around my neck with a jump. The conductor whistles the departure signal. She lets go of me and gets into the compartment her attendants already boarded. I sympathise with them, but for Claire, the journey Milena and I are about to embark would be an ordeal. She hates not being able to move around.

"Will you behave a bit while travelling?" I ask as I close the door of the carriage behind her.

Claire looks back for a moment at those sharing her compartment. "Don't worry, I have their best interests at heart," she parrots with a grin, leaning out the open window. I try to look stern and fail miserably. The nod from the lady behind her reassures me. Milena joins me and together we wave Claire and the others goodbye. Her journey leads to Locarno while our private train heads for Meiningen.

"Our journey ends in Zurich?" Milena says. She hadn't failed to notice the destination of Claire's departing train.

"Your journey ends in Berlin, I think. I'll see Claire in Locarno again."

"Locarno is in Switzerland, right?" She says, as we make our way through a maze of building materials, scaffolding and decking.

"Just barely, yes," I reply in a moment of calm amidst all the noise. Fortunately, our train is not far. "In terms of atmosphere and climate, it's more like Italy. My mother grew up there."

"We're going to your mother's estate?" she asks. "I thought you parted with it."

I evade her question. "The chateau, yes, but part of the associated estate is still in my possession. At the moment, the finishing touches are being added to a kind of spa I'm building there. The Palace of the Seven Virtues. With the opening of the Gotthard tunnel, thanks to your husband's diplomatic talents, Locarno will be better accessible for visitors from the north."

She doesn't let that distract her. "Seven virtues? Some kind of spa? Why does that sound like you arrived with one of your suitcases full of gifts? I guess it's not that virtuous."

We arrive at our car, and I courteously offer my hand to help her up the wagon's balcony.

"Our bags are already on the train, now we have to."

With a nod, she accepts my help, and elegantly ascents. Then she turns around and blocks my way with her hands on the railings. "What's our next stop?"

I grin. "A theatre visit in Meiningen. That's all I'll tell you about it."

Content for now with my answer, she lets me onto the train. We're the last to board, and with my signal to the driver, the train prepares to leave.

Milena goes to the sleeper cab to put on something comfortable. I use the desk in the lounge to finish up banking matters the Cologne meeting generated, but lack focus. My thoughts keep wandering to the evening before. The image of Milena, shuddering and shaking, suspended from ropes. Her body covered in red welts, bruises and white wax; her hair loose, sticking to sweat-covered skin. Tears streaming down her cheeks, drool dripping from her mouth, juices flowing from her cunt. Animalistic, repulsive, and yet beautiful. Totally surrendered to the brutal intoxication of lust without reason. Totally shameless. Total in her trust of me. The first time I assisted her across a border.

Once back at the hotel, I tended to her wounds, but there was no room for more aftercare. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but now she recovered and still hasn't brought up yesterday's events. It worries me, because I'm not getting any signals she wants to talk about it. Have I gone too far, pushed her too hard?

When she returns and takes a seat on the sofa by the window, she has traded her travel clothes for a simple white nightgown that hangs loosely around her and leaves her arms free. The marks yesterday's scene left are still clearly visible and no doubt palpable.

"Meiningen. That requires me to stay anonymous," she says with healthy aversion. "In Cologne it was easy. I don't know anyone there, but I know plenty of people who handle their financial affairs in Meiningen."

"So do you, as your fictional great uncle was one of them. Other than that, we each have our own hotel room, so if it makes you more comfortable, you don't have to hide," I say, my attention still half on the papers at hand.

"The master manipulator thought of everything, then."

I close the folder with documents and put it away. Her sarcasm needs my full attention. Missing a signal now leads to unspoken sentiments that will fester.

"As much as possible. It would be unfair to set you free, hearty and hale, among the smoking ruins of your social life, or aboard a sinking marital ship when the month is over."

"That ship was already listing when I took up the challenge, and I couldn't care less about social obligations at the moment." With a petulant sigh, she jerks her gaze to the window; arms crossed and lips rigidly together. Sullen. Time for the conversation we didn't have yet, if I get her to talk.

"That you feel this way now, that's fine. If you still feel that way by the end of the month, then it's up to you to do something about it. I don't have to tell you to be mindful of your friends and family, whatever choices you make."

"Says the man who drove his own family to suicide and insanity," she bites back. We look at each other in silence. Eventually, she lowers her gaze to the floor. "I didn't mean it that way."

"You did mean it that way. It's also true," I say, "but you won't make my mistakes. You love your family too much to cause them such pain. That's why I don't have to tell you. You may wear a straitjacket patched with the needs of others, but it supports you as well. This month should loosen its lacing a bit, not rip it off."

She doesn't answer, and it's not clear what she's struggling with. I pour two cups of tea from the samovar next to the desk, sit down across from her in one of the armchairs and offer her a cup. She takes it without looking at me.

I attempt an opening. "At the moment, you feel untethered like a ship in a storm, without a clue where the harbour is and where the cliffs are. It's exciting and exhilarating, but also scary. Especially for you, because you like to be in control."

Reluctantly, she nods and takes a sip of her tea, her eyes still evading me. I sit up straight in my chair. The king on his throne. Then I put my cup on the table beside me with a bang. She flinches and finally faces me.

"What we do is not a contest of who blinks first, Milena. When you feel overwhelmed, in any way, you use the words I have given you. There is no shame in it whatsoever. I am here to stand by you in this storm, which I can only do if you let me. By calling me a bastard and then telling me what's wrong. Not by picking a fight with me. Clear?"

"Clear," she says, making herself small, as if she wants to disappear into the couch. I want to take her in my arms and offer her a comforting embrace, but that would send the wrong message. That is what a lover would do. I push the urge away and lean back. "I will presume you think me a bastard. What's bothering you?"

-----

That I can't turn back time by ten minutes, that you seem to know exactly what's wrong again, that I was stupid not to tell you, that you look at me with a cold ice storm in your eyes instead of a sultry wind of appreciation, that I'm afraid of falling madly in love with you, that I want to flee back to Berlin and never see you again, that I never want to leave you, even though I can't stay.

I think all this, but I don't say it. Cowardly, I explain I want to know where we are going in order to get a better grip on the situation. Not an outright lie, but not even a fraction of the whole truth. I doubt you believe a word I say, which makes me even more miserable.

You torment me by patiently answering my questions. First, we go to Meiningen to attend a theatre performance, produced by a friend you know from the army. Then we will travel to Bayreuth for the opera Yvette already mentioned. Then to Luxembourg, and the rest eludes me completely. I nod at the right moments like I'm listening, as I often do with others, false and artificial. I don't want to be like that, not with you. When the conversation falls silent because I stop responding, I finally do something that is genuine. I stand up, go down in front of you with the plug in my open hand, and beg for punishment.

-----

"Good," I say, sounding more assured than I am, and bend forward to take the plug. There are other issues than my travel plans, of course. I hoped Milena would address them, but she decided on a different path. Claire's warning echoes in my head. For a moment, I consider postponing punishment, but now is not the time. She is too far adrift not to give her the guidance she asks for.

From our bedroom I fetch three whips which I place in front of her. The flogger with thin leather strips I used yesterday, a large leather paddle and a bamboo cane. "Choose your punishment and Serve," I command.

She gets up and kneels with the most painful option offered on her hands. The cane. I take it and stand behind her.

"Table." I say. She does, kneeling on her knees and elbows. I drape the dress over her back, her buttocks bared. "I don't believe in punishment if you don't learn from it. So you count, starting from one. After each number, I will strike. Hard. You may groan, scream and roar, but you will not stop counting until you call me a bastard."

-----

One. The pain flares through me. There is no pleasure, only pain. Pain that keeps smouldering on my buttocks.

Two. Incomparable to childhood, when I sometimes got caned if I had misbehaved badly. Incomparable to yesterday's flogger. You hit as hard as you can.

Three. I moan and groan. Sweat breaks out on all sides. The smouldering becomes a blazing fire. I cannot adjust to it, it only gets worse.

Four. The tears well up in my eyes. I deserve it. I lied to you. Withheld the truth.

Five. You're my teacher, not my companion. You are my lover, not my beloved.

Six. The storm of thoughts becomes a firestorm of pain. I scream out loud. I can't keep this up.

Seven. I don't have to. It stops when I want it to. I want this.

Eight. There is no space for anything but pain.

Nine. I cannot think anymore.

Ten. I have no will

Eleven. My will is yours

Twelve. My head is empty.

Thirteen. Only the counting

Fourteen. And the word of grace.

Fifteen.

-----

"Bastard!"

She reaches fifteen. We're both soaked in sweat, breathing hard. "Lie down," I say, weary and lost for other words. She is right, I am a bastard.

I drop the cane along with the plug on the floor in front of her and treat the thick, parallel stripes left by the cane with ice from the wine cooler, to soothe the burning and prevent the worst of the swelling. The bright red streaks already turn dark blue as I treat them with ointment and help her onto the couch. Other than a groan of pain, she never says a word. In her eyes, there is satisfaction, but also a serene distance. She regained her composure, and I don't know what to make of it.

On the one hand, I am relieved she found a new balance, but I am sorry it had to happen like this. I leave the salon to freshen up in the bedroom, but mostly to calm down. When I return, she lies on her side, writing in her diary. We continue our journey in silence. Not a strained silence, more like the calm after a storm. Back at my desk, I try to concentrate on business matters that await me in Meiningen.

-----

Pain. Real pain. Not a single moment of pleasure. Not a plug to fill me. This was just punishment. Punishment I deserved because I kept the truth from you, because I jeopardised our covenant, our agreement. Because you could no longer protect me from myself when I pushed my limits. Because I no longer wanted to see you as a teacher, but as my lover. The risk of the game we play.

With the blows you dealt, the beating I took, we restore our covenant. I'm also amazed at myself, that I accept this and do this. That I am lying here writing, half-naked with searing blue stripes, because I shiver at the thought of something touching my buttocks. That I find this proper and normal. No, not normal. All this is far from normal, but it's right. As if I'm wearing a new and differently shaped corset, which strangely enough fits like a glove. It gives me support in the right, unexpected places and sets me free where another corset would hinder and constrict me.

The world you have shown me since I accepted the collar is not the world I came from. A drab, dull, sleeping world, full of frightened, living dead. Little by little, step by step, as you promised, you set me free. Even if I struggle against it. And when I stumble, you are there to catch me or carry me onwards. You bring me into a world that is intense, alive and in colour. Where I feel like I have never felt before. Born again. Birth is a painful process and not only for a new-born, I know from experience.

You have not enjoyed the punishment any more than I have. There is sadness in your eyes as you tend to my wounds, help me onto the couch and hand me my diary to write in. Like me, you hate hurting the ones you love. You do love me, no doubt about it. Like a teacher loves his favourite pupil and is proud of her when she does well, or punishes her when she makes a mistake. Nothing more, but certainly nothing less. It is enough. It has to be.

-----

"You don't have to come to the theatre this afternoon if you don't feel like it. If Georg is already there, he's probably too busy rehearsing anyway," I say and close the clasp of her collar at the back of her neck. Even though I hope she'll come, I want to give her the chance to get the rest she needs. Our eyes meet in the mirror of the carriage's sleeping compartment.

"No, I want to go," she says. "I'd like to look behind the scenes."

"Do you know the duke personally?" I ask.

"By sight. I've never been introduced to him."

We arrive at our destination in half an hour and have taken our time bathing and getting dressed. From one of the hatboxes on the bed, I grab a summer hat that matches her dress and present it to her. If she keeps the voile veil of the hat in front of her face, no one will recognise her. "I think it would be better if I introduced you as Lara. He will know what's going on."

She nods and places the hat on the dressing table in front of her. "So he's not only a comrade-in-arms but also a regular at your brothel?"

"Not really. He visited the house and it's dungeons, but I don't think of him as a guest," I say, looking for a suitable accessory to hide the collar. The creamy white dress she wears is demure enough to cover the marks I made, and sensually draws attention to her neck and cleavage. "Without him, I would not be here for several reasons. The main one being that he saved me after I confronted a new kind of French artillery, a volley gun. The way he led the regiment also taught me a lot. He was without doubt a ruthless commander and yet he always made you feel he had your best interests at heart."

I find what I'm looking for. A choker of creamy white lace with a cameo encased in a beautifully crafted silver inlay. "Hold up your hair."

She does as she studies me in the mirror. I lock the clasp, the choker hiding the leather band around her neck. "He's a father figure for you."

"I guess so." I leave it at that. Even though I have no clear picture of what a father should be, Georg comes close in some ways. More than my real father, anyway, but I don't think sons share experiences with their fathers like the ones I share with Georg.

She smiles. "Another reason to meet him then. I'm curious about those you consider close relatives. I assume you trust him enough to keep my secret. Then the hat seems unnecessary to me, other than as shielding against the sun."

"The choice to be recognised I leave to you, but yes, your secret is safe with him," I say.

"Isn't it strange to receive someone in the dungeons with whom you have such a bond?"

Stranger than she can imagine. "My relationship with Georg doesn't fall into approved templates. The things we have been through are too extreme for that. By the way, his last visit to my dungeon was a long time ago. He married one of my other guests. The marriage turned into quite a riot, because the emperor was not happy with his morganatic choice."

"Helene Von Heldburg, right?" She smooths out her dress and winces from the pain I caused to her rear.

"Since the wedding, yes," I say, looking for the shoes that go with the dress as Milena finishes her toilet. "Before that, her name was Ellen Franz and she enjoyed a career as an actress. With her, he discovered his passion for theatre, and how you can bend a theatrical performance to your will."

I kneel at her feet and help her into her shoes as she leans on the dressing table. Sitting down will not be possible for a while. "The illusion of theatre is his way of leaving the battlefield behind, I think."

"What's yours?"

"I try to prevent the next battle," I say with little conviction and look up at her. "In that respect, I do have a soft spot for St. Georgius."

"The saint of the hopeless cause." She smirks. "Probably also the reason you care about me."

I stand up and answer her smirk with mine. I'm already looking forward to Georg's gaze as I present her. It can't be anything other than admiration. "With Lara, I envision a different saint. Take a close look at that cameo."

She frowns and inspects the jewel in the mirror. The image of Mary Magdalene looks back. "Scoundrel," she says, heartfelt, but she doesn't remove the choker.

Meiningen, 31 July

"To the right, damn it. Not my right, stage right." Georg may have grown older and grizzled, but being a former officer, his voice still carries its angry loudness. His impressive figure stands in the middle of the auditorium, commanding his troops with direct gestures. No longer soldiers though, now stagehands and actors carry out his orders.

With a stage littered by the ruins of a battlefield, the recently renovated City Theatre of Meiningen provides an ironic frame to the setting. The venue is decorated with heroic depictions of Chariots, gilded Prussian eagles and the image of Lady Germania to honour the new empire and pound it into the hearts of the people. The home of the renowned Meininger Theatre Group, the pride and passion of Georg and his wife, Helene. Unnoticed, Milena and I approach him from behind.

"Well, Commander, do we attempt to win this battle?" I say when order has somewhat returned. Georg turns to us with his dignified beard and happy blue eyes. Even if it involves angry bellows, he takes great pleasure in his passion and it keeps him young. He is well into his fifties, but could easily pass for my older brother.