Hans Kochmeier got out of the taxicab, brushing himself. Americans were so dirty! He paid the driver with a near grimace, and surveyed the house. "Cyrus Thibodeau, aged forty-four, journalist but with independent income from family trust."
Hans smiled and shook his head. Another lazy, fat American. And from what Fanchon had told him, this man lived in a filthy, unkempt house even with a weekly maid service, and he also had a filthy masturbation habit. An obese hausfrau waddled by, gazing curiously at the young, immaculate German, in his blond crewcut and white turtleneck sweater.
The woman resembled Hans's last case, a slovenly district attorney, named Angela Scifres...Hans had broken several canes on her lard-filled buttocks before Ms. Scifres had shown much improvement at all...Hans was confident that now he'd left her care, Angela Scifres was once again stuffing Twinkies and other grotesqueries in her mouth, undoing all his good work. Alas.
Hans walked to the house, climbed the unkempt, badly kept steps and rang the doorbell. Hans waited. He heard some scuffling from the inside, and curses. Cyrus Thibodeau will pay for that...making me wait on the porch, cursing. Ach, much work to do here. Hans's fingers longed to grip a cane again...Fanchon promised that she'd sent some implements to this dummkopf's house...
The door finally opened, and Hans looked in mild revulsion at a balding man clad in a T-shirt proclaiming a membership in the "Buttermilk State Chuggers Club" and Bermuda shorts. He was shoeless . "Yeah?" The balding man peered at the trim twenty-eight year old German. "Are you selling something? Bibles, perhaps? Not here, man." The door was about to close when Hans, holding back his desire to gag at the smell of stale beer, spoke.
"You are Cyrus Thibodeau, I believe? I am Hans, your new Master. You may call me Master Hans." Hans's nose wrinkled, but he soldiered on. "Step back from the door and let me in, young man. We have much work to do."
"Huh? I don't think so." Cyrus Thibodeau shook his head. "I think you got the wrong dude...perhaps you're looking for an embassy or something---"
Suddenly Hans's right hand shot out and grabbed Cyrus Thibodeau's left nipple, and he twisted it violently. "I believe I told you to step back and allow me to enter...you are not starting your relationship with your new Master well, Cyrus. Fanchon will not be pleased."
Cyrus Thibodeau screamed until Hans let go of his nipple, and then he stood back,and Hans entered the house. Yes, it was disgusting. Cigarette butts everywhere, abandoned pizza delivery boxes, beer cans...Yankee disorder.
"Look,no, you--ow, that hurt. Shit! I--" SMACK! Han's hand crashed across Cyrus's face.
"I do not allow profanity. Where are my canes?" The crew cut spun around, surveying the repulsive pig sty that was this rich American's house."Fanchon told you to leave them in the living room, I believe?"
"No, no...Jesus, my nose is bleeding. Fanchon said she was sending someone to live here, but I asked for a Mistress, not a Master. You got it wrong, man." Cyrus was not quick on the uptake, in Hans's opinion. Ah! but there were the canes.
Hans pivoted and walked into the living room, and picked up a nice long bamboo cane from the coffee table. He bent it, smiling. Yes, very good. "You will remove your shorts, Cyrus. In fact, remove all your clothes. I may burn them after your punishment."
But the American was not finished talking. Quite, quite unfortunate. He babbled something else about having wanted a female Master, and Hans decided to wade right in. He swung the cane, catching Cyrus Thibodeau smartly across the shoulders.
Cyrus Thibodeau began backing up, and screaming about the police, and Hans caught him by the ear and shook Cyrus's head until his eyes were rolling about in it. "You are going to be a difficult case, I assume. If Fanchon had not given me your cashiers check for twenty thousand dollars for your first month, I would leave now...but I am committed. I have signed a contract."
Cyrus's mouth was slack. "Sh-she gave YOU my check? I'm not going to get a hot little dominatrix? What kind of--Oh no!" For the young German was quite strong. Hans grabbed Cyrus and threw him across the couch, and ripped down his shorts.
WHACK! WHACK! THWACK! CRACK! Hans had been a Dominant Master for nine years and he never got sick of the feeling of a cane in his grip, and the satisfying look of welts being raised on a fat, pale buttock.