Henri had splashed all over O’s face. With her hands bound behind her there was no way she might wipe any of his discharge off. She thought to herself, “Only one other man has treated me like this. That American Naval officer – his name was Ted – that I met when I was doing photos of the BDSM festival in that German village. We began dating; he was the man who introduced me to bondage. On what was to be our last night together before he was transferred, he tied me up. Then after taking me, he left me bound and masturbated on my face. My cleaning lady found me. She thought it was quite funny. I was so embarrassed. That was what – over five years ago – before I met Rene and went to Roissy for the first time. Yes, I was embarrassed, but it was only my cleaning lady who found me. Now these workmen will see me – bound and chained with Henri’s discharge splattered on my face. How humiliating!”
O watched the clock on the wall. As it struck nine, Mathilde, Henri’s maid unlocked the door to the room where O was sitting on the sofa. The three workmen came in. Of course, they saw her right away. How could they not notice a naked woman, sitting on a sofa, her legs spread and tied to the end leg of the sofa and because her legs were spread, they could see a chain running from the ring that pierced her labia to a ring set in the floor by the middle leg of the same sofa. O expected one might come over and fondle her, or take her, Henri’s discharge on her face was proof that she was there to be had. But – No. They just went to work, finishing building the dais that Henri intended to use to punish O, to display her as the slave and whore she surely was.
After an hour or so, their work was nearly done. Oskar, the German looking older, heavyset workman in his 50’s called, “Brotzeit!” and Alain and Abfaro paused. They went to their lunch pails and withdrew the mid=morning snacks they had brought. Again, Alain brought a cup of coffee over to O and asked if she would like some. O shook her head, and he went back to the other side of the room. Abfaro approached. He said nothing, just stared at O for a long time. His eyes scanned her entire body. She felt as if she was being measured and weighed. She was sure the African man would touch her at least, but he only stared. After he left, Oskar approached. She went to O, withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped her face off where Henri had discharged. O murmured, “Thank you.”
Then Oskar leaned close and whispered, “We will be finished soon. Once we finish building the dais, Monsieur Henri said we could take turns using you. But I have a daughter about your age. I cannot imagine what you have done to be treated like Monsieur Henri treats you. No living thing, not even a dog should be treated as you are. I have a knife in my pocket. After we finish and leave, I’ll tell Alain I forgot something and slip back in. Then I could cut the bonds on your wrists and ankles. Cut you free. I have a car; I could take you away.”
O looked up at the older man. She sighed and looked down as she said, “You might cut my wrists and ankles free, but I would still be fettered here by the chain piercing my sex. It is locked to a screw set in the floor.”
Oskar stepped back and looked. Flummoxed he said, “I have bolt cutters in my car. I could free you, Fraulein. Free you from your slavery.”
Most days at lunch, Captain Joanne Ross went for a several kilometer run around NATO grounds. She had been on the cross country at West Point and continued to run all throughout her military career. She saw the benefits of running. It kept her in shape for the Army’s annual fitness test, it relieved her stress and broke up the long day she put in at NATO as Branch Chief of the Analysis Section in the Intelligence Fusion Branch. She had a routine; Joanne would skip regular lunch, go for a run, shower in the gym, change back into uniform, and go back to the office where she’d eat a protein bar and drink a can of V8 juice.
But today, the shower in the gym was broken.
As a still sweaty Captain Ross came through the maze of cubicles surrounding her office. As Section Chief she was the only individual who merited a private office. As she went by Chief Warrant officer Charles Mathis’ cube he whistled and said, “Nice uniform, Captain. Where can I get one like it?” Mathis was probably the oldest, longest serving individual in NATO. He had almost 40 years in uniform and was biding his time until mandatory retirement at age 62. He could, and did, get away with saying things that would have gotten others astern rebuke or written warning at the least.
Captain Ross didn’t take any offense. She admired Mathis for his lengthy service and looked at him as almost a father figure. She smiled at Mathis and said, “You like it? Shorts and a running bra are all the rage among us young officers now. But on you? I dunno. I think I’ll just go in my office and cool down before putting my uni back on.”
Paul didn’t notice or hear that conversation. He was sitting at his desk deep in thought about something Magnus, one of the INTERPOL agents who had worked with Ted and him in Munich had said, “It seems a lot of this trafficking of females has a central entity behind it.” Paul was still trying to figure out what the nexus might be when he got a ding on his e-mail. It was from Captain Ross and said merely, “Come see me, please.” Paul went other office and saw the door was closed. He knocked lightly and heard the Captain say, “Come in.” He did and saw her sitting in a chair beside, not behind, her desk. She was barefooted, her military boots and running shoes beside her. She had on running shorts – a size too small, Paul thought- and a black sports bra. Paul also saw her uniform hanging neatly from a hook on the wall.
Paul said, “Excuse me, Captain Ross. I thought you said to come in.”
She glanced up at him and said, “I did. I thought we could talk while I cooled down from my run. That old saw about ‘Horses sweat; ladies glow’ is a bunch of b.s. And please, for the hundredth time, call me Joanne or Jo.”
“O.K. Will do.”
Joanne said, “I just got an e-mail from Colonel Grey. He said that you did an outstanding job briefing the general this morning. I wanted to pass that along. I wish I could have seen it.” The audience for general officer briefing was limited by the available space. Only colonel and above officers got to see the briefings in person, although the written texts would be posted on the website later. Joanne continued, “Anyway, I just saw the colonel’s e-mail and wanted to pass along the atta boy.” Then she got up from the chair and went to get her uniform. Paul noticed. He thought, “Yep. Those running shorts are a size too small and either she’s wearing a thong or going commando underneath the shorts.”
And as Joanne pulled her uniform trousers up over the shorts and slipped on the matching camouflage jacket, she said, “And remember, I sort of invited you to have dinner at my apartment sometime?”
Paul responded, “Yes, I certainly do.”
“What about Friday night. I’ll cook pork Belgian pork chops.”
Paul sat at his desk in the cubicle assigned to him. In the Analysis Section only Captain Ross had a private office as she was section chief. But Paul didn’t really mind; the cube was rather spacious, big enough for three computer screens and some desk space. The three screens were for the three systems he monitored: JWICS, the one that carried messages marked “Top Secret;” the SIPRNet for “Secret” and, of course an unclassified one. Surprisingly enough a lot of what interested Paul was on the unclassified system. He thought to himself, “Many of the European news agencies provide valuable information for intelligence analysis. Unlike American media which seems to always be pushing their own political agenda.”
Paul had seen several news articles about refugee women being arrested for prostitution in Northern European port cities – Gdansk, Stavanger, and Copenhagen in particular. While prostitution was technically legal in those countries, arrests were sometimes made if trafficking was suspected of being involved. Paul had also seen in some of the classified message traffic that suspected terrorists with ties to ISIS had also been arrested in those cities. Putting two and two together, he had deduced that there might be a possible correlation. Then he had put these thoughts into a short analysis paper. When he reviewed it, Paul thought to himself, “Not a bad piece of analysis for a field agent.”
Captain Ross had read the paper without comment but did pass it along to Colonel T. J. Grey. He was impressed with the work of his old friend, and sent it back with a few suggestions and a note saying, “Tweak it a bit, and I’ll put you on the calendar for the General’s briefing tomorrow morning. It’s at 0730. And be sure to dress accordingly.”
That night back in his apartment, Paul had rummaged through his closet. He thought, “Just what in Hell does a civilian GS 13 wear to brief General Wolters? True enough, I’ve briefed General Officers plenty of times when I was still in the Army, but choosing an outfit was never a problem then. It was whatever the duty uniform was that day. As field agent for the CIA, I dressed pretty casually. Hell, I don’t even own a suit anymore. I wonder why T.J. didn’t have Captain Ross do the brief. She’s a lot better looking than me.”
Nevertheless at 0730 the next morning Paul took the podium in the command briefing room. He had incorporated T.J.’s suggestions and had slides to go along with the written copy provided to the general. He wore a blue blazer and a blue button-down shirt with a contrasting tie. Rather than the customary cotton khakis he wore at the office, he had found in the back of his small closet a pair of gray wool slacks. He hoped the general wouldn’t notice he was wearing Samuel Hubbard nubucks with a gray rubber sole.
But of course, General Wolters noticed. He said, “I like your shoes Mr. CIA agent. I have three pair of Hubbards myself. Great shoes.” He paused before saying, “But I don’t wear them to work.”
One day at the office, Captain Joanne Ross asked Paul, the CIA officer on loan to the NATO office where she was chief of the analysis section, what he usually did for supper. “Or dinner as you southerners say, isn’t it?”
Paul replied, “Dinner is our big meal as in Sunday dinner at grandma’s.
It’s usually around noon, but if you eat a light lunch and a big meal at night, it’s dinner.”
“So, the night meal can be either dinner or supper?” she asked.
“Yep,” he answered.
“You people are so confusing,” she said. “Back home in New Jersey…”
Paul interrupted and said, “Watch that ‘you people,’ and frankly my dear, we don’t give a hot dam about how you did it back in New Jersey.”
That brought a chuckle from Chief Mathis, the section’s warrant officer, who said,” Touché.”
Captain Ross retreated to her office and Chief Mathis said, “You young folks have strange ways of flirting.”
the dutch are so fucking funny to me. it’s like the german obsession with following rules and order was mixed with british stuffiness and formality, and the result is a nation obsessed with narrowly following everything to the letter and abusing whatever loopholes may arise
there are dutch contracts from the 1600s that are still being honoured. coffeeshops can’t legally let you in unless you show ID, but that’s a hassle, so they have a second door in front of the Actual door, with an area that’s technically not part of the shop, so that you can buy weed while still not technically having entered the shop. supermarkets can’t sell hard liquor so they need a second storefront for that, that’s fairly normal - but the second store is physically located entirely within the first store, with the only difference being there’s a second cash register there
when a dutch acquaintance i barely knew came over to my apartment the first thing they did was quiz me on whether various things they noticed were allowed in my lease. if you do manage to get dinner at someone’s house you can be sure they’ll be sending you a tikkie receipt to pay for the ingredients. it’s a nation of bureaucrats! you’re not even technically allowed to sell weed, but there’s a thirty-step list of logical deductions you can make that make it okay, and everyone just accepts that.
amsterdam’s being built up as the new london, a business capital for europe, and it fits! they had their own east-india company, their own colonies, they eat the same unseasoned mush. even the language is just someone ad-libbing between german and english while eating a boiled potato
Counterpoint a dinner invitation is Serious Business. Cause youre gonna want to make something nice!!! You want to cater to their preferences, needs, diets! Picking a meal to eat when someone is coming over is equally difficult to buying like, wedding gifts.
If theres people over youre not just having potatoes and canned carrots on the couch with ¾ meatball yall. It’s about standards. People-over meals are more polished! Its a together-at-the-table meal! With the serviettes you normally only use at christmas or birthdays! You’ll want to put some lemon or mint in the water carafe! Use the Good plates and glasses! It’s called being a polite host!
It’s not (always) about money. It’s about knowing how much Hosting you have to commit to beforehand. Having to scramble together a meal is embarrassing! How can you always have a meal in storage thats suitable to guests? Theres no way to prepare for that.
And if you buy waaaay fancier groceries than normal just in case. But then the guests leave after tea because they didnt expect to stay? Rude! Now youre stuck with all this food! Or worse, it’d be like pressuring them to stay longer than they would’ve wanted. It might mean someone at their home is eating alone now and thats also not ok.
“Sorry my parents/spouse are counting on me for dinner.” is the most common response to being invited last minute to a meal.
You gotta know beforehand! Dutch people Know not to expect a whole ass meal when doing an afternoon visit. Evening visits are usually after dinner. It’s a good endpoint to a visit anyway? You gotta know we are an introverted ass country, after a few hours we are usually done with hanging out. It’s a bit of social contract to make it easier to socialise without dropping standards.
EATING TOGETHER NEEDS AT LEAST 4 HOURS PRIOR NOTICE but preferably a few days :)
Belgian here - and the above post is the best explanation I’ve seen so far for how things work around here. Obviously there’s differences between families and such, but on average, yeah, there is just an unspoken understanding that if dinner/lunch is not explicitely mentioned in the invitation, you’re not getting any. And if there’s any doubt, you clarify. Meeting up at 6pm? Okay so will you have had dinner by then or will you be eating with us? It’s not that they’re not welcome, it’s just I want to know so I can prepare?
Like I spent a few months living at a friend’s place cause I was renovating - had a key, my own room, was part of the family. There was only one rule: I had to let them know whether I’d be home for dinner or not. And like, I think that’s a fair request? There’s a difference cooking for 3 or 4, obviously she wanted to know.
That’s not to say I would let visitors watch, or leave them somewhere while I’d go eat - I’ve read those stories and that is just supremely weird. But honestly I wouldn’t know what to do if dinner time arrived and my guests would not show any sign of leaving? Because as the person above says, I want to be a Good Host and offer Good Food.
Leftovers are not Good Food, they’re literally what’s left from the day before and it’s probably not even a full portion anyway, let alone enough for everybody. And it’s hardly thoughtful - like, here, have something I found at the back of the fridge. Bread and cheese are Basic Food, I can’t serve that to guests, it’s like I couldn’t be bothered to put any effort. Takeout is Lazy Food - it’s fine once in a while, but it doesn’t exactly scream thoughtful host.
So now I have to MAKE food, and hope that I 1. actually went shopping, and 2. can somehow combine the ingredients for two 4-person-meals into one 8-person-meal. But although this solves the Good Food issue, is also makes me a Bad Host, since now I have to leave my guests alone to go cook. Again, it’s not like they’re not welcome to have dinner, but I didn’t plan on that and now I have to improvise and it feels very much like being put on the spot.
Though I do agree about one thing - don’t make people pay for food that you offer to them, regardless of whether you invited them or not wtf???
