The Story of S— a further sketch scene
Sketches of an attempt at a version of the Story of O— without the coercion.
NEWS! After languishing as sketches for so long, another episode has been written! See the end of this one for the link.
Picture: New AI pic - Sophia, pretty in a chunky sweater
Picture: Original pic - Sophia, pretty in a chunky sweater
The next day, in the afternoon, after a blustery walk in the downs, in a country pub, she all rosy cheeked and relaxed, he raised the subject again, out of the blue.
This time he does want to talk about the book.
She was relieved, as much as she was taken aback. The book had disturbed her, deeply. The subject matter, of course— the violation, the cruelty, the heartlessness, the insistence on the intermingling of love and submission, the violence, the passive acceptance of all this by O, the aggressive and relentless abuse and intentional degradation, that had been shocking.
But equally unsettling had been her own reaction, the heart-stopping moments as she realised, again and again, that some further boundary was going to be heartlessly violated— moments when she had, shockingly, found herself transfixed by sexual excitement. Been unable to deny that these sensations were very close to those she experiences when he is taking her past some boundary of her own (boundaries much, much more harmless than anything in the book, but nevertheless, for her, in her innocence, her inexperience, her uncertainty, just as astonishing).
And beyond that was the question: why had he asked her to read this book— this pornographic novel— for however well-written it was, it was still very definitely pornography. What did it mean?
The way he had blocked her questions at dinner the night before had not helped— teasing as he had been, it was clear there was more to come. And here it came— just when she was at her most open, vulnerable.
Just the way he liked it.
Just the way she liked it, she had to admit.
For while she knew for sure that he enjoyed playing with her, manipulating her, getting reactions from her, that there was certainly a degree of cruelty in this, at the same time she knew it was also a mark of his interest in her— that there was some point to his constant pushing, extending her limits, letting him see his manipulations, challenging her to object, to withdraw— or conversely, to accept, to submit, to show him that she was happy to be teased, shocked, if it pleases him.
And it is almost always this latter path, now, that she takes, letting him see her hurt, letting him see her accept it. Going where he wanted her to go.
It wasn’t that she was frightened, that was stupid. She knew he wouldn’t be pushing her if it was that way— no, it is particularly because she knows what he is doing, lets him see she knows, lets him do it anyway, that he persists. It is a game between them— a game that he always wins, a game she loves to let him win— because what she loves about her time with him is that it has extended her, opened her, widened her perspective.
Left to herself, in the years since Adrian, she has grown smaller, safer, even less outgoing that she had been, and left to herself, she would have stayed that way. And so, despite the in-the-moment hurt and embarrassment, she takes these demands upon her now as a plunge into a cold pool, as the sudden, terrifying downhill rush of the rollercoaster— something intense, all engulfing, but willingly endured for what it does over time.
And so, now, she let him see her smile fade, see her let the words sink in.
She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable, challenged, but not pulling back. He’s done this, before, initiated conversations that make her feel uncomfortable— mostly around sexuality, and she knows that he likes to make her uncomfortable this way— push her, pull, her, get her to talk about things she has never talked about before.
And she knew that at some level, this was entertainment for him— this watching her as she allows thoughts, images and concepts to take shape, take form in her mind— things that she would previously have suppressed— sometimes he laughs at her, sometimes he sits, watching, while she struggles, complacent.
And it always surprises her, that no matter how ashamed she feels, no matter how crushed by his amusement, how horrified afterwards at the things she has opened up to him about, no matter what, she knows that this increasing feeling of liberation she experiences is down to him, down to everything he does with her, to her— that he pushes her to do. And she has to accept that she is deeply grateful to him for doing this to her, for the pushing, the probing, the teasing.
And of course, she cannot hide from the fact that so much of it is about sex— about his requirement that she continually be more explicit about sex, about what she likes, about what she will do to please him, and what she won’t do. And here too, she is helplessly, eagerly grateful and hungry for more, for the sexual experiences she has had with him totally transcend what she has previously experienced, what she had begun to accept was all that could be expected of sex— messy, fleetingly exciting, mostly embarrassing, shameful, awkward.
And so she shivered, let him see her shiver, feeling the fluttering in her belly— sometimes these conversations were the prelude to nights of wild abandon and intensity, and at the moment she would beg him for such an evening, so starved is she of the release, the peace, the fulfilment it would bring.
“Well … it … it seems to have a theme about love and submission … um … obviously… I mean, she is in love, and that’s what … what gets her into … into that place …”
“Roissy, you mean— or the dungeon?”
“Um … um … all of it, I suppose… And … and then she is, sort of ‘given’ to the older man, and somehow, despite the horrible way he behaves— what he does to her, at least— she decides she’s in love with him— and lets him do much worse. And then, at the end, it seems as if she might die if he doesn’t want her.”
A pause; he sipped his beer, watching her. Her nipples were hard— her groin pulsing. She loved him looking at her like this— so steady, so inscrutable, so direct. At moments like these she felt possessed by him, and at the same time, as if he could see into her thoughts, her feelings; that he knew exactly how in thrall to him she was, felt completely open, vulnerable, willing; she loved this feeling, never wanted such moments to end.
He too enjoys these moments. He might not be able quite to see what is inside her to the extent she fancies, but she did certainly seem to open herself up to him, looking at him softly, frankly, yet utterly without challenge, allowing him to look at her without raising any defences.
Picture: New AI pic - Sophia, vulnerable
Picture: Original pic - Sophia, vulnerable
But such moments have to end to stay special, and, at last he smiled, a half smile, at least;
“That’s a start I suppose. I’m interested though, as to whether you have any other ideas about why I asked you to read it? Apart, I mean from casting myself into the role of Bluebeard?”
She smiled, still in the moment;
“If I had to have a Bluebeard, I think I’d quite like it to be you, actually.”
“Be careful what you wish for, pretty!”
It was so confusing to be called ‘pretty’ by him— on the one hand, it made her want to cry with happiness, having spent her girlhood and adolescence convinced she was ugly; on the other hand, it was definitely patronising and belittling, and she knew she should object. She certainly would, if he were anyone else, but as it is him, she melts.
He’s waiting. Oh, yes— the book. OK, he wants it. It’s obvious really, now that he is pushing her;
“Well, it … it sort of is like us— a bit; only because … because she … she’s the one doing the loving and he— the older one at least— never says he loves her— even though she tells herself he might, or he must.”
“I’m not being mean, you know— telling you very clearly that I do not love you— that I won’t love you. You know that, don’t you?”
Picture: New AI pic - Sophia, sad
Picture: Original pic - Sophia, sad
Her mouth sagged open a little in dismay and her eyes strayed, filled with sadness. They had had this conversation before, and it hurt her, every time.
He watched her, letting it hurt, offering no comfort— he never does, just waiting and watching— she felt him watching, even though she couldn’t look at him, so hard was it for her to have him be so coldly honest. She remembered the time he had told her that he found suffering— her suffering— both beautiful and erotic, and, knowing this, she found herself trying hard to make her pain enjoyable for him, closing her eyes briefly to suppress a tear, until at length she swallowed, and looked up, smiling bravely, taking a deep breath, hoping he was watching the way her breasts moved under the sweater, seeing the pleasure in her face, experiencing it both as both a cruelty and a reward;
“I do .. I do know that you say that … and that’s exactly it; the book is like a helpless love letter from a woman who loves a man who doesn’t— or simply refuses to— love her; letting him know that she will suffer anything for him, for the sake of her love, even though she knows he doesn’t love her. And then I went and read about the author, and it seems as if that might have been her, with the man she wrote it for, who never left his wife for her. But that might just be me, interpreting it— after all they were French intellectuals— who knows what they were really up to?”
“So, now I’m not just Bluebeard, but Sir Stephen, too, who has poor O whipped on her opened sex, and burns his initials into her backside with a branding iron.”
His words sound teasing, but he was looking straight at her, face serious. She felt a jolt of real fear. She had gone right to it, the day before— talking about slave-girls and the like— but that had mostly been bravado, she hadn’t been serious;
“Don’t … don’t say that, please …” she says, weekly, voice tailing off.
“Why ever not? We can say what we like, we two, I suppose— as long as we’re both in it together. And do anything we want, as long as we both want it.”
It took her a very long time, then, to get up the courage to say what had to be said, the burning question in her mind— what he has been wanting from her all along, perhaps;
“And do you? Want … want to whip me, there … and … and burn your initials into me?”
She was trembling, visibly, uncontrollably. But there was no other conversation in the world she would rather be in; the pretty, sunlit pub had closed in around them with the dusk, and it was as if they are all alone, as if something momentous would be decided, right there, right then. She was terrified, and equally fascinated, transfixed, willing to do whatever might be required to have the moment reach its peak.
He was completely serious as he replied, unembarrassed as he spoke the terrible words;
“If the circumstances were right, and you had asked me to feel free to do those things, then perhaps I might. Maybe a great many other things, too.”
Silence. She could feel her heart beating; hard, heavy, a slow, portentous pounding. He seemed easy in his seat; calm, relaxed. If he had been anything else, she realised later, she would have been up and running, but as it was, he held her, and she? She wanted so desperately to be held.
Scenes from the book came vividly into her head, with herself in the role of O, saw herself subjugated, degraded, violated, disfigured, and her chest heaved, her pulse racing; she could no longer meet his eyes, looking vacantly down at the table, felt him watching her, knew herself to be holding herself for him, wanting him to see how affected she is, how she was controlling herself for him, her hands palm up, apparently relaxed, on the table. She wanted him to see that she could sit with the idea of him whipping her sex, burning her with a branding iron, wanted him to understand that she thought about these things as she was reading the book, that she had known she was meant to imagine him whipping her, him burning his name into her soft flesh; that he had meant her to think about that. That she had carried on reading nevertheless.
She wanted him to know that she had let those scenes live in her mind, him abusing her in that way, and that she had not run, had not challenged him. It wasn’t that she wanted those things, but that she would let the idea of them be real between them, if that were what he wanted from her. Her chest heaved with intense, complex emotion; emotion she could not name.
He watched her, suffering, controlling herself, holding herself for him for the longest time, and she felt him enjoying it, felt his satisfaction, and knew that something had changed between them; that she had offered him something, and that he had banked it; all unspoken, all as solid and certain as the iron collar which O had been made to wear, as the manacles that had held her as she was flogged until she had screamed for mercy, for pity, and been ignored.
At last, though he spoke;
“There is something else, though, in the book, that seems powerful to me, and it’s this. Superficially, it’s all about how strong, how ruthless, how powerful and cruel he is, how submissive, how weak, how pliable she is— a classic setup: a strong man who demands and a weak woman who gets what she deserves.”
Duncan looked up— very sincere, wanting her to hear this— it was something new from him; something more open, more emotionally honest than anything before, and she clutched for it like a drowning woman at a twig.
“Taken seriously, though, if you think about it, that story doesn’t stack up. Such treatment is scandalous— highly illegal, socially unacceptable— O doesn’t have to put up with it. She couldn’t put up with it; love, after all, is not— cannot be— completely unconditional. There are only two possibilities I can see; one, that the book is untruthful— that in fact O is being physically coerced, somehow blackmailed, or paid, or terrified into submission— despite the tale that is told: this, I must say, seems unlikely— why would Pauline Réage have written a false book for her lover?”
“so that it is the other option which strikes true for me— which is that O is just as strong— perhaps even stronger than Sir Stephen or René, in her own way. That she is the one who takes the decision to submit, to accept each further step of degradation. That Sir Stephen is totally dependent upon her ability to— or her desire to— *who knows?*— maintain her submission.”
“Because there is no way that her subjection can be married to the interludes in which she is free, living and working in Paris, and yet subject to such cruelty and degradation, unless it is she who is doing all the work— she who is offering herself up for it all.”
“Just think about it; walking along the streets of Paris, knowing she is to be raped by some fat stranger, or whipped by the horrid and eldritch maid, why would she carry on to her destination? Why not either turn back and have the locks to her apartment changed— or more simply, walk into any police station and cry rape? Proved or not, such an allegation would be dynamite— and what does she have to lose -she, who has had all decency, all dignity stripped from her already?”
“So, the way in which I read it, the book is a proclamation of strength, of resilience, of fortitude, of clarity of intent. Even though O wobbles, it is clearly she who at several points pushes things forward, overcomes Sir Stephen’s doubts, propels him to further cruelty. It is he who has the problem— driven by hatred, or fear, insecurity, who knows? to inflict insane cruelty in order to achieve his sexual release and have physical evidence as to his power over her— even if it is she who has granted that power to him.”
His voice was cool and reasonable; thoughtful, exacting — as if he were expanding upon some point of history, or the plot of a serious film, intellectually engaging, but without any hint that there might be a moral or personal impact of his argument.
But to Sophia, a chasm was opening up— one of confusion, of doubt, of fear and uncertainty, for she— she was not— she knew she was not— not like this new picture of O which he had presented to her— she had no clear, strong intent, no great resilience. And Duncan, too— Duncan was clearly not filled with doubts and insecurity, as he claimed that Sir Stephen was… What … what was happening?
Silence.
Silence was all she got, until she could not bear it, could not bear the uncertainty, needed to have an answer;
“What … what do you want from me?”
She looked at him then, shy, nervous, vulnerable, but needing, needing to see his eyes, needing him to be still as strong as her mental picture, mightily relieved to see him lounging back, relaxed as always; interested but not concerned— grinning at her even, enjoying himself, enjoying her confusion, the knowledge both welcome and hurtful. Her heart lurched again, fearing and yearning for this to be some new, seductive trap that he has been laying for her.
He smiled;
“Well pretty, I’ll tell you. But I’d like you to say yes beforehand.“
“What? What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’ll answer your question, tell you what I want from you, in as much detail as you want, but I want you to say you’ll grant it to me, right now, right before I answer.”
He’s really smiling now, enjoying himself, enjoying her discomposure, her agitation, laughing at her a little, watching her, watching to see what she’ll do— not really caring, apparently, what it might be, just in the moment, as he so often seems to be.
And indeed a voice in her head was telling her that she could do something decisive— that she could leave— that this was it— the time to finally break the spell that he has had over her— to run, to get away from his intensity, from the all-consuming atmosphere that he drew around the two of them. To escape from the obvious danger of the direction his conversation has taken them in, with the crazy talk about whipping and burning.
It was time to go; leaving was so obviously the sensible thing to do. Except that even as the conviction formed in her mind she was consumed by the desire to do the insane thing— to say yes, to promise to give him, to do, to become whatever he wanted, before he even told her her what might be. To do something remarkable for him— something he must notice— something not weak. She saw just how carefully he had prepared this ground for her, of course, but nevertheless it was real ground, there was something real she could do for him, at that moment, something which would mean something for him, something that he could ot do for himself.
Suddenly she wanted to be naked for him as she offered him her promise. If they had been in a room she would strip, kneel— open her legs as O does, put her hands behind her back, as if cuffed there. She was going to offer herself to him.
“Yes. Yes. Whatever it is, it’s yours. Yes.”
She was close to hyperventilating, while he was as calm as ever, grinning widely at her, watching, seeing her blush, seeing her fear rise up, seeing her control it for him, seeing her suppress the incipient hysterics, manage herself, compose herself, reseat herself, pull her shoulders back, push her breasts forward, and then, at last, made herself smile, however weak and trembling her lips might have been;
“Whatever it is.”
And suddenly, once this had been said, she knows that it was wonderful to have done it for him; no, not even for him, but for me; it’s wonderful for me. It makes no sense, but I feel … what is it? Yes! I feel free, released from all those questions. I’ve said ‘Yes’. It’s not my problem any more. No doubts. I will just do what he wants me to! Her smile softened, became more genuine, more open; and her voice was soft, too, as she repeated herself;
“Whatever it is.”
He’d seen that look before, and his cock stiffened. She was wet and eager for sex, it was clear. He’d reserved a room upstairs, and it would soon be time to take her there and fuck her very hard indeed. But the scene needed to be played through to the end.
“Just so, pretty, just so. It won’t be hard, never fear— what I want from you, in fulfilment of your commitment, is simple— just that you will come and meet some friends of mine one evening, in a hotel in town. That’s all.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not, whether to laugh or punch him— really? That was it? Was it some joke? But already she could tell from his expression that there was more.
“But I should explain what the subject of the meeting will be.”
“You see, although Roissy is clearly a fantasy, and a ludicrous one at that, the desires and conditions that make it an evergreen book are real. There are indeed men and women who want to subjugate others, who enjoy inflicting savage cruelty, and there are also, happily enough, men and women who find peace in submission, even— perhaps especially— from severe and vicious treatment, through heartless cruelty and degradation.”
“Our group is, as you might guess, of the former persuasion. But rather than go to tawdry nightclubs full of tourists and poseurs, we adopt more serious and long-term methods. We currently control three rather lovely young women absolutely, holding them subject to any and all use and abuse— sexual, physical, mental; we also have two other girls in development.“
“This is the group I will be taking you to meet, if I decide that you are worthy, to see if they will agree to take you on as a development prospect— as a supplicant, offering herself, asking if she has the potential to be supported in her desire to move towards becoming a sex slave, and perhaps, in time, to beg to be allowed to give up on herself completely— to beg to be allowed to relinquish all responsibility for herself, all human rights, relinquish herself to us; to our complete control, to let us treat her as something less than human.
She had frozen, her smile still in place but dead, not breathing, as far as she could tell.
He waited until she did, at last, take a raged breath, before going on;
“Of course, our slaves are all branded, intimately pierced and tattooed. All take the whip between their legs— and across their tits; sweetly, too— albeit with much whimpering, desperate screaming and of course, many tears.”
“At the same time, all are volunteers. They are all like the O I described— they all asked for their subjugation, at every step of the way. Like O, only more so. None of these girls stays with us because of love, and none of us are so weak as to need any individual girl to validate our power. The subjugation they experience— demanding and unrelenting as it is— was requested by them in a series of explicit stages. They are strong, in their own ways. Our girls in development— the process I believe you are more than ripe for— are taking the time they need to find out for themselves how far along the road they wish to go. The decision to go further or to step away is theirs, and theirs alone.”
“This is not to say that we don’t recognise the reality that all of us in this— both we dominants and our girls— are psychologically damaged individuals— that our desires and satisfactions are well outside the norm. We accept completely that, in easing these pretty and vulnerable girls along the path to sexual servitude, we are not working to heal them, but to accentuate their strangenesses— and at the same time accentuate our own. So far, though, we are very happy with our ability to walk a tightrope between coercion and cooperation. The feedback from girls who decide not to go all the way is that they felt supported at all times— that for them, indeed, it has been a healing experience— that they have walked away having discovered for themselves the limits of their desire for subjugation, and discovered that they are not defined by it.“
“As I laid out when I talked about O, the ease with which one of our girls could destroy us is clear— while we have no such power over them. The fact that we are able to continue after seven years tells its own story.”
