The Mattress Camp

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Jolinka sat with her legs crossed in the visitors’ area, a cup in her hand. She pulled her skirt a little lower. The publisher was building up a second mainstay in the online erotica sector. She worked as a consultant for a publishing house. Her working hours start in the afternoon. She wanted to have a cup of coffee before, but Felix couldn’t wait to ask her for advice. He was nervous about the website he was supposed to fill with text. He had been waiting for her.

Felix was in his mid-twenties, had reddish hair, a bit portly; but always smiling. He stood in front of Jolinka, some papers in hand. “I’m creating a website about non-consensual sex,” he explained. He could make a lot of words about nothing and was suited to write web texts. His job was to publish articles with keywords that would attract users and keep them on the portal.

“Can I use the following text?” He read from a sheet, “In our society, there are sexual preferences that are non-consensual. Like BDSM and necrophilia. Knowing that necrophilia would require the consent of a sleeping person, makes it clear, that is non-consensual.”

“You can’t use that, Felix. Almost everything about that statement is wrong. Where did that come from?” asked Jolinka. Her skin was white and her blue eyes were framed with small wrinkles. Long blonde hair fell down her shoulders. She was one of those fifty-something women who didn’t realize how attractive she was.

“The text is from a podcast. What’s wrong, Jo?”

“BDSM practitioners make contracts with each other to make sure they act consensually.”

“What about this necro…”

“Necrophilia refers to sexual acts on dead persons, definitely not consensual. What was the next phrase?”

“…would require the consent of a sleeping person…”

“Sex with sleeping, or unconscious, persons is called somnophilia, not necrophilia. The podcast mixes it up. You should focus on necrophilia, Felix.”

“The topic will certainly excite visitors. I’ll find out more about it,” he replied.

“Tell me if it is too scary for you. If it is, I’ll write the article together with you.”

“That’s an offer. Thanks, Jo.”

As Felix left the foyer, Jolinka’s eyes fell upon a group of young men, accompanied by her boss, Harold. She hadn’t noticed them coming through the glass door. The men looked like siblings; about thirty years old, dark-haired, with slightly olive skin, and athletically dressed. Only Harold wore black, as usual. Jolinka stood up to greet them. She was almost as tall as the men.

“My cousins,” Harold explained, showing a semicircle with his hand. “Jolinka, my advisor.”

Jolinka said apologetically, “You heard my conversation; it wasn’t a nice topic, sorry.”

The tallest man, dressed in beige slacks and a dark blue polo shirt, tilted his head, “You answered a factual question factually, there’s nothing to apologize for.” With that, he saved Jo from Harold’s expected accusation that she should have had the conversation in her office. “My name is Leon, I’m Harold’s oldest cousin.” He looked at the two men standing next to him, identical twins, handing over the conversation to them.

One of them spoke, “We are Kilian and Benedict. Graphic artists. You can tell us apart if you remember that I’m wearing the plaid shirt, my brother is wearing the brown shirt, with B for Benedict.”

Jolinka laughed softly and replied, “Thanks for the help.” How nice, polite men, she thought. Who was the last one in the group? She looked at him. He was the only one with green eyes; all the others had brown, almost black eyes. She paid a lot of attention to eye colors.

“My name is Timur, I am a relative. Since we don’t know what the relationship is called, I am a cousin.” Timur wore jeans, a white piquet polo shirt, and held a basket. It was rectangular, slightly smaller than a pack of facial tissues. “In here,” he lifted the basket, “is Tigger. I couldn’t leave it alone, it’s in bad health.”

Jolinka took a step closer and looked into the basket. Wrapped in a blue microfiber cloth, she saw a small kitten. It was lying on its side and breathing heavily. In the corner lay a 5ml syringe of milk. “Oh dear,” Jolinka said, “the kitten is more dead than alive. But what great fur markings.”

Tigger was an orange and beige striped tomcat. The muzzle was bright. While most cats have vertical forehead stripes, it had two horizontal strokes, like eyebrows. The body was reminiscent of a tiger’s coat. Tigger was born very weak. Apparently, it had paid for the unusual appearance, with low chances of survival.

Harold took the floor. “My cousins are visiting the publishing house and also have a request for you, Jo. We should sit down and have some coffee from the vending machine.” He pointed toward the sand-colored, U-shaped seating area. Next to it was a round table with chairs, but it didn’t have enough room for the group. Next to the table was a beverage vending machine, a large wastebasket, and a shelf of local business brochures.

On escort izmir the wall, hung framed issues of the local daily newspaper that Harold’s father had founded. As readers were no longer interested in the printed edition of the small town’s daily newspaper; it was discontinued. Harold was only able to maintain the online edition; but it didn’t bring in enough money to pay his employees.

Statistics showed him that the most frequently clicked posts on his publishing website were those about sex. There was an erotic club in the little German town, Framersdorf; the reports about it had the highest number of hits. According to the people of Framersdorf, group sex parties were held at the club, with participants coming from all over Germany. This could be seen from the license plates of the cars parked in the yard. Every now and then, residents would “accidentally” let their dog run away into the yard. People smelled cigarette and candle smoke from the red-lit windows and were outraged.

The club was called, Liebesschaukel, which means love swing. The Liebesschaukel had only a primitive website, which gave Harold an idea while looking for a second mainstay. He had a long conversation with the owner, “call-me-Otto,” a gastronomer with a big belly and a beard, the owner of several clubs. They decided to get into the online business.

With the help of a young local programmer, and advice from Jolinka, an erotic online portal was created. At first, the clicks linked as inconspicuously as possible to Otto’s clubs. Gradually, more and more erotic clubs booked advertising space. Fees were received in Harold’s company account. The second mainstay had worked.

The quiet, well-read Jolinka helped build the content of the pages. As much as she resembled an erotic expert on the outside, she was sexually reserved on the inside. A large scar on her flat stomach was to blame for her reticence. The result of a sledding accident as a child; Jolinka believed it was an unattractive sight. The few men she had been with over the last thirty years hadn’t minded, and they emphasized that explicitly; but Jolinka did not believe them. There in the publishing house, she thought about the last time she had sex, triggered by the sight of the four visitors’ masculinity.

The visitors walked towards the large seating area and Jolinka turned to her boss, “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Harold shook his head, “No please, we need you. Kilian and Benedict will explain it to you.”

The men waited until Jolinka sat down, then each took his place. The visitors came from distinguished families and were well brought up. They were familiar with manners and etiquette; especially with regard to women, they were always up to date.

Timur sat to the left of Jolinka. Leon, the oldest and most attractive member of the family, sat to her right. Jo estimated him to be thirty-five. Harold took a seat opposite.

Tigger twitched several times in a row. Timur put his finger under the tiny paw. “It is getting colder and colder. It didn’t drink milk today. Oh God, Tigger, what am I going to do with you,” he sighed loudly. “I’m a veterinarian,” he told Jolinka, “It’s hard for me to watch this.”

“Should I warm it?” Jolinka asked, bending over the basket.

“How are you going to do that?” the vet asked, shrugging his shoulders, “A heat lamp didn’t work.”

“I would do it, like women do with a premature baby,” Jo explained, as Timur’s eyes got big. “Uh, like…” he was astonished, and had to swallow, “If you… if you want to.”

After curtly saying, “Give me that,” Jolinka took the basket, stood up, and disappeared into the restroom, the first door on the right in the hallway leading from the foyer.

The publishing house was located in a one-storey building. An unimpressive house with many windows, it could have housed a craftsman’s business. The attic was converted, but offered little living space due to the sloping roof. Nevertheless, Harold lived there with his wife and child because it was practical.

“What is she up to?” asked Harold, looking at Timur’s puzzled face.

Leon jumped in with an explanation, “She is putting Tigger between her breasts, it works like an incubator.” He was trained as a medical doctor, as he wanted to help people; but not in a matter of life and death. That’s why he had chosen sports medicine. He had nothing to do with obstetrics; but this much he knew, “That’s what you do with premature babies when they’re not in an incubator.”

Kilian couldn’t stop laughing. “The tomcat won’t survive, I guess; but at least it will have a handsome death.” The men nodded devoutly… dying between a woman’s breasts wasn’t the worst death.

Jolinka came back and sat in her previous spot. Tigger lay comfortably on a few sheets of toilet paper between her soft breasts, surrounded by body temperature, cradled by Jolinka’s breathing and soothed by her heartbeat; there was nothing to be seen of Tigger. Jo’s light blouse was closed izmir escort bayan demurely, much to the fallen disappointment of the all-male audience.

She looked around the room and asked, “You would like to know something specific?”

Kilian sat down and took the floor. “We are graphic artists and we were getting bullied. Stink bomb in the mailbox, fish under the doormat, things like that. The perpetrator was an online acquaintance of our secretary who died of diabetes shock. The man believed we were to blame; she had overworked herself, and we took away his great love.”

Jolinka listened in silence, and eyed Kilian. His cousins were neatly coiffed, while only Kilian’s hair was deliberately tousled. He signaled with it that he tends to fall out of the orderly line, without seriously breaking rules. He rubbed the back of his neck and continued talking.

“The perpetrator met Hannelore, our secretary, in an erotic chatroom. We found a short chat history, and emails. He signed his name ‘Gunter’, and we know the pseudonym he used at that time. We hired a detective agency to find him, so that the terror would stop. They couldn’t find anything. Harold said you might be able to help if you read the emails.” He pulled papers from his breast pocket, and handed them over.

Jolinka unfolded them and read. Meanwhile, Harold got coffee out of the vending machine and handed out the cups. A wonderful aroma permeated the foyer, all the way into the long hallway. There, behind dark brown wooden doors, the employees worked hard.

As she read the last lines of text, Jolinka muttered, “He’s a rigger. That simplifies the search.”

“What’s a rigger?” asked Harold.

“It’s a term that comes from seafaring, a profession,” his co-worker explained. “Riggers can knot ropes into rigging. The term has been adopted in BDSM, for bondage artists. Bondage, you’ve probably heard of that.”

The men were too quick-witted and well-bred to nod. They had grown up in a private boarding school. Their wealthy families sent the sons of each generation there. They listened to Jolinka with fascination; like they did in those days when a classmate told erotic stories spun together in the dark. They didn’t grimace. Except for Kilian. “How can you read that from this text?” he asked, forgetting to drink his coffee.

Jolinka cleared her throat and the kitten jumped up and down. It was kicking, a sign to Jolinka that it was alive. “I guessed at the beginning of the text. The writer emphasizes that Hannelore is safe and speaks of trust. Gunter uses phrases that are popular in the BDSM scene, like Fear is only in your mind. Hannelore did not understand this. She answers him, but doesn’t refer to his words.”

“She was like that in real life, too,” Benedict interjected. “She didn’t listen, she said what she wanted to say; completely incoherent.” The dark shirt he wore over a black T-shirt made him seem more serious than his twin. Jolinka noticed the differences between the two brothers. She liked the lively Kilian a little more.

“In one of the last texts, the wanted man talks about Momo, so everything was clear to me,” Jolinka explained.

“The detective agency said he was talking about the children’s book,” Kilian said, and Jolinka laughed out loud.

“Momo is shibari bondage,” she objected, “Japanese. The man you are looking for wanted to do bondage with Hannelore. Finding a woman for that is not easy. He was disappointed to lose her before it even began.”

“Do you think you can locate the man with this information?” asked Kilian, his coffee getting cold. He could not take his eyes off the experienced, mature woman. His cousins felt the same way. They tried hard to disguise it as polite attention; and Leon did it best. Perhaps, his dominance made it seem the most credible.

“I think I have a chance to find him,” Jolinka ventured. “I am an expert for erotic offers on the Internet. I work here before I go to my main place of work, at the club. The wanted man was online around the clock, looking for a woman. He’ll be doing that again. How much time do I have?” She looked at her boss.

Harold replied, “We’re going to tour the publishing facilities, and then we’re going to visit my family. We’ll be busy for about two hours. Do you want to find who you’re looking for, right now?”

Jolinka wanted to take advantage of the two hours. She took the Tigger basket with her, because of the milk syringe lying in it. She sat down in her office, behind one of the back doors. The men walked up the narrow staircase that led to the apartment where Harold lived with his wife and two-year-old daughter.

Jolinka registered in the chatroom mentioned on the printouts. She peppered her profile with keywords that indicated an interest in bondage. She relied on the zip code search, because Gunter lived in the vicinity of Framersdorf. One private message after another popped up, and one by one she closed them. Actually, she clicked away all the messages. Crap, this izmir escortlar wasn’t working out the way she thought it would. She shouldn’t have made any promises. It all depended on whether the person she was looking for, took notice of her.

“Hi. I live near your location. Like to chat?”

Jolinka reacted immediately. After a while, when her hope that she had found the right person was confirmed, she wrote, “We should talk on the phone, because we live close to each other.”

The man gave her a cell phone number and she called him withholding her number. The excitement of speaking to a real woman – a woman interested in his fetish – was audible. “My name is Gunter,” he said breathlessly. The name was right, but there were many men with that name in Germany.

“I’m Jay,” Jolinka fibbed, “you’re experienced and looking for a new partner? Have you broken up?”

“My partner died, of overwork,” Gunter replied. Loudly and emphatically, he said, “Her bosses made sure she worked herself to death.”

She had found the culprit. The rest was a piece of cake. Jolinka now knew his place of residence, and that he lived next to a church. He was an early retiree and lived in the house he had inherited from his parents. Enough information for the detective agency to find him, at least they should be able to do that. She arranged to meet Gunter and put off the meeting for a long time. She had no intention of running into him. Satisfied, she hung-up the phone and logged off.

“Tigger, we made it,” she said into the neckline of her blouse, letting in some fresh air. The kitten felt the draft of air and wheezed. Jolinka pulled Tigger out, put it on the microfiber cloth, took the syringe and offered it milk. Tigger drank hastily, and made a huge mess, its little face was full of milk. After it was wiped off, it got back into its incubator with a full belly, and instantly fell asleep.

An enormously loud bang that made the windows shake made Jolinka cringe. Even the monitor on the desk shook. She had just registered that the bang came from outside when a second more violent explosion shook the room. She jumped up and looked out of the window. Smoke was rising from the direction in which the Liebesschaukel was located, as well as from the center of the village. She stared at the scene in horror. Her cell phone rang. OTTO was shown on the display.

“Shit, Jo, where are you?!” his voice yelled out of the phone.

“At the publishing house,” Jolinka shouted louder than necessary, “what happened?”

“A car bomb has gone off in the courtyard of the club. In the car was the minister. Shit, he’s been hit!”

“And what about you? What about the staff?”

“We’re okay, Jo. Stay where you are. I’ll call you when I know more.”

The frightened Jo sank into the swivel chair. The office door yanked open and Harold rushed in. He asked breathlessly if she was all right. Jolinka knew more than he did and informed him. Where the second bang came from, neither of them knew. There was nothing important in the center of Framersdorf; the town hall could have been the target.

Loud voices and footsteps could be heard in the hallway. The employees set off to get to their families as quickly as possible. Felix still lived with his parents, just a five-minute walk away. Like his colleagues, he wanted nothing more than to see his loved ones. Harold ran to his office to start reporting on the newspaper website. Jolinka remembered the visitors. Where are they?

She found them in the foyer, they had retired to the seating area and were discussing what to do. Kilian was in favor of leaving immediately. Leon objected: “Four young men in a black SUV. How fast do you think the police will let us get?”

Outside, sirens could be heard. Police, fire department, ambulances were on duty and raced through the town. Police officers shouted at passersby to go into their homes and close the windows. A loudspeaker urged residents to stay in their homes.

“It’s too late,” Jolinka said to the guests, “You’re not getting out of here.” She took a deep breath, “I’ll get the TV from the conference room.” Leon helped her carry the flatscreen into the foyer and plug it in. Jolinka caught a glimpse his flexing muscles under his polo shirt. Despite the chaotic situation, she found him tremendously attractive. Too bad he was at least fifteen years younger than she was.

Watching TV they learned which minister had been the victim of this attack and that the area had been sealed off.

“Sealed off? Completely overblown,” Kilian said.

“Reminds me when they closed the German highway for eight hours when a crate of tomatoes fell off a delivery truck,” Benedict grumbled.

They paused, and muted the television. The silence was oppressive. Jolinka made an effort, and informed the group of her success to find Gunter. She wrote down the results of her research on a piece of paper. She wrote left handed; even that was erotic. “What are you going to do with this man?” she inquired.

“We will threaten him with legal action, to stop harming us. We don’t care what he does on the Internet. We will not expose him,” Benedict affirmed. “We are very grateful to you, Jolinka. You really helped us a lot.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32