Story of S early Sketch Pt 2

The Story of S— a further sketch scene

Sketches of an attempt at a version of the Story of O— without the coercion.

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 sips his beer, watching her. Her nipples are hard— her groin is pulsing. She loves him looking at her like this— so steady, so inscrutable, so direct. At moments like these she feels possessed by him, and at the same time, as if he can see into her thoughts, her feelings, that he knows exactly how in thrall to him she is, feels completely open, vulnerable, willing; she loves this feeling, doesn’t want these moments to end.

He too enjoys these moments. He may not be able quite to see what is inside her to the extent she fancies, but she does certainly seem to open herself up to him, looking at him softly, frankly, yet utterly without challenge, allowing him to look at her without any defences.

But such moments have to end to stay special, and he smiles;

“That’s a start I suppose. I’m interested though, as to whether have any other ideas about why I asked you to read it? Apart, I mean from casting myself into the role of Bluebeard?”

She smiles, 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’s so confusing to be called ‘pretty’ by him— on the one hand, it makes her want to cry with happiness, having spent her girlhood and adolescence convinced she was ugly; on the other hand, it is definitely patronising and belittling, and she knows 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?”

Her mouth sags open a little in dismay and her eyes stray, filled with sadness. They have had this conversation before, and it hurts her every time.

He watches her, letting it hurt, offering no comfort— he never does, just waiting and watching— she feels him watching, even though she can’t look at him, so hard is it to have him be so coldly honest with her. She remembers the time he told her that he finds suffering— her suffering— both beautiful and erotic, and knows that knowing this, she tries hard to make it so for him, closing her eyes briefly to suppress a tear, until at length she swallows her pain and looks up, smiling bravely, taking a deep breath, hoping he is watching the way her breasts move under the sweater, seeing the pleasure in her face, experiencing it both as both a cruelty and a reward;

“Exactly. So in a way the book is like a helpless love letter from a woman who loves a man who doesn’t love her, letting him know that she will suffer anything for him, 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, 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 is looking straight at her, face serious. She feels a jolt of real fear. She had gone right to it earlier— 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 takes her a very long time to get up the courage to say what has to be said, the burning question in her mind, she realises— 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’s trembling. But there is no other conversation in the world she would rather be in— the pretty, sunlit pub has closed in around them with the dusk, and it’s as if they are all alone, as if something momentous will be decided, right here, right now. She’s terrified, fascinated, transfixed, willing to do whatever seems required to have this moment reach its peak.

He is completely serious; “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 feels her heart beating. He is calm, relaxed. If he was anything else, she realised, she would be up and running, but as it is, he holds her, and she wants to be held.

Scenes from the book come vividly into her head, with herself in the role of O, subjugated, degraded, violated, disfigured, and her chest heaves, her pulse races; she can no longer meet his eyes, stares down at the table, feeling him watching her, holding herself for him, wanting him to see how affected she is, how she controls herself, her hands , palm up, relaxed, on the table. Wanting him to see that she can sit with the idea of him whipping her sex, burning her with a branding iron. To know that she thought about this as she was reading the book, knew it was him, and her, that he meant her to see. That she carried on reading.

The pause is long, but at last he says;

“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: strong man who demands / weak woman who gets what she deserves.”

D looks up— he is very sincere, wanting her to hear this— it’s something new from him; something more open, more emotionally honest than anything before, and she’s clutching at it like a drowning woman.

“But in fact, if you think about it, that’s ridiculous. Such treatment is scandalous— highly illegal, socially unacceptable— she 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 she is physically coerced, somehow blackmailed, or paid, or terrified into submission— despite the tale that is told: this, I must say, seems unlikely— for why write the book?”

“No, the other option is the one which strikes true for me— which is that she is just as strong— perhaps stronger than he, in her own way. That she is the one who takes the decision to submit, to accept each further step of degradation. That he is totally dependent upon her ability to— or her desire to— who knows?— maintain her submission.”

“Because there is no way that such behaviour 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?”

“Actually, the way I see it, the book is a proclamation of strength, of resilience, of fortitude, of clarity of intent. Even though O wobbles, it is clearly her who at several points pushes things forward, overcomes Sir Stephen’s doubts, propels him to further cruelty. It is him who is the problem— driven by hatred, or fear, or something, to require insane cruelty simply to satisfy his sexual urges and his need for reassurance of his power.”

His voice is cool and reasonable throughout— as if he is expanding upon some point of history, or the plot a a romantic movie, nothing of any urgent significance.

But to S, a chasm is yawning— one of confusion and doubt. For she— she is not like this new picture of O— she has no clear, strong intent, no great resilience, and D, D is clearly not full of doubt as he claims Sir S is… What … what is happening here?

Silence.

At length she cannot bear it, cannot bear this uncertainty, needs to know;

“What … what do you want from me?”

She looks at him then, shyly, 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, interested but not concerned— just as usual, grinning at her even. Her heart lurches again. This feels as if it will be some new, lovely, seductive trap that he has been laying for her.

He grins;

“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 is telling her that she could do something decisive— she could leave— that this is it— the time to finally break this spell that he has had over her— to run, to get away from this intensity, this all-consuming atmosphere that he draws around the two of them. To escape from the obvious danger of the direction this conversation has taken, with the crazy talk about whipping and burning.

Time to go. This is obviously the sensible thing to do. Except that even as the thought passes through her mind she is consumed by the desire to do this insane thing— to say yes, to promise to give him whatever he wants, before he tells her what it is. To do something remarkable for him— something he must notice— something not weak. She sees how he has prepared this ground for her, of course, but nevertheless it is real ground, there is something she can do here.

Suddenly she wants to be naked for him as she offers him her promise. If they were in a room she would strip, kneel— open her legs as O does, put her hands behind her back, as if cuffed there. She is going to offer herself.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

She’s almost hyperventilating, but he’s 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, control herself, compose herself, reseat herself, pull her shoulders back, her breasts forward, and then, at last, make herself smile, however weak and trembling her lips might be;

“Whatever it is”

And suddenly, once this has been said, she knows that it is wonderful, and her smile becomes genuine, soft, open, and her voice is soft, too, as she repeats herself;

“Whatever it is.”

He’s seen that look before, and his cock stiffens. She’s wet and eager for sex, it’s clear. He’s reserved a room upstairs, and it will soon be time to take her there and fuck her very hard indeed. But this scene needs to be played through, first.

“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 doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not, whether to laugh or punch him— really? That’s it? But already she can tell from his expression that there’s 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, and there are also, happily enough, men and women who find peace in submission.”

“Our group is, as you might guess, of the former persuasion. But rather than go to tawdry nightclubs full of tourists and poseurs, we take a more serious turn. 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 choose to go ahead, to see if they will agree to take you on as a development prospect— as a potential sex slave.”

She is frozen, her smile still in place but dead, not breathing, as far as she can tell.

He waits until she does, at last, breathe, then;

“Of course, our slaves are all branded, ringed 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 is theirs, and theirs alone”

“This is not to say that we don’t recognise the reality that all of us in this— both masters and the slaves— 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 al times - that f=or them, indeed, it has been a healing experience. “

“As I laid out with 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.”