we need now is the light from the fireplace.
Zealous, quick, the Black strikes a match in the hearth, under the twigs that catch fire immediately with a continuous crackle and disintegrate into tiny embers as the logs start burning.
The women remove their masks, which the Black collects and aligns on the mantelpiece on both sides of an earthenware bust representing some virgin female warrior.
Looking determined and sure of herself, Françoise approaches Sebastian who remains stock-still in the center of the room. She deciphers the letters on his chest and walks around him, touching him lightly, as if taking the measure of this body she is touching for the first time. She says to me in a low voice:
"Congratulations," then, more loudly, to be heard by everybody:
"Can one ask questions of him? Can one hurt him?" And I answer:
"Yes. Please do. Do with him what you will."
Whether it is that, satisfied with my reply, she does not want anything else at the moment, or that she finds all new initiatives premature at this point, or that she is suddenly embarrassed by Sebastian's intimidating availability, or... whatever, she leaves it at that, does not ask any more questions and returns to the couch.
He hasn't moved. Blind or not, he won't move until a female voice orders him to do so. You can't even see any of those minuscule movements, instinctive shiftings that cause one to put more weight on one leg or the other to prevent ankylosis. He looks petrified. Yet the statue has warm skin and a beating heart. How long can he stand there before feeling discomfort, before swaying with exhaustion? I don't know.
F. does not appreciate this extreme passivity in the least.
You wouldn't have to push her very hard to make her admit that she finds it boring. She prefers transports half-restrained by the fear of transgressing the limits of what is permissible, transports she encourages, tolerates or sanctions depending on her mood.
It is the "extreme" in this extreme passivity that fascinates me. There is something in it that incites me to violate him, an excess that defies me... and I hear myself utter these threatening syllables:
"On your knees!" and he kneels.
"On all fours!" and he obeys.
"Head down!" His head sinks toward the floor.
"Don't bend your back!" His shoulders are in perfect alignment with his buttocks.
There is hardly any "give" in that couch of flesh when I lie down on it, my head resting between his shoulder blades. A little to the side, the Black sits cross-legged on the floor, his palms turned up, waiting for our next command. At this moment, he is watching me attentively. As I start moving my arms to put my hands on Sebastian's belly, the open flap of my dress slips off me and leaves me almost entirely uncovered. I leap to my feet. The Black has lowered his eyes. That's good.
Then what happens? Fog... forgetfulness... never mind, only a little time can have passed between the servant's lowered gaze and what I see next: a leather whip nonchalantly resting on Sebastian's back, a whip with multiple thongs spread out like a fan, thongs that fall back, softly, onto his thighs, between the buttocks-and farther away, Françoise leading Marie to the fireplace and making her sit down with her back to the fire. She caresses Marie's lips with one hand and with the other starts unbuttoning the woman's black lace bodice, baring her shoulders and arms. As it slides off, the bodice stops for a moment at the wrists, then drops onto the white marble of the hearthstone.
Unfastened, her wide skirt falls around her ankles and high-heeled shoes. Marie is wearing a pair of my sheer black stockings, pulled up very high, almost to the groin, held by narrow garters, and, according to my wishes, black silk lingerie.
Françoise strips her of that lingerie after she has admired it and tested the silkiness of Marie's skin at the edge of the material.
Now my pretty friend is naked. Her only ornament is a marcasite bead that
Zealous, quick, the Black strikes a match in the hearth, under the twigs that catch fire immediately with a continuous crackle and disintegrate into tiny embers as the logs start burning.
The women remove their masks, which the Black collects and aligns on the mantelpiece on both sides of an earthenware bust representing some virgin female warrior.
Looking determined and sure of herself, Françoise approaches Sebastian who remains stock-still in the center of the room. She deciphers the letters on his chest and walks around him, touching him lightly, as if taking the measure of this body she is touching for the first time. She says to me in a low voice:
"Congratulations," then, more loudly, to be heard by everybody:
"Can one ask questions of him? Can one hurt him?" And I answer:
"Yes. Please do. Do with him what you will."
Whether it is that, satisfied with my reply, she does not want anything else at the moment, or that she finds all new initiatives premature at this point, or that she is suddenly embarrassed by Sebastian's intimidating availability, or... whatever, she leaves it at that, does not ask any more questions and returns to the couch.
He hasn't moved. Blind or not, he won't move until a female voice orders him to do so. You can't even see any of those minuscule movements, instinctive shiftings that cause one to put more weight on one leg or the other to prevent ankylosis. He looks petrified. Yet the statue has warm skin and a beating heart. How long can he stand there before feeling discomfort, before swaying with exhaustion? I don't know.
F. does not appreciate this extreme passivity in the least.
You wouldn't have to push her very hard to make her admit that she finds it boring. She prefers transports half-restrained by the fear of transgressing the limits of what is permissible, transports she encourages, tolerates or sanctions depending on her mood.
It is the "extreme" in this extreme passivity that fascinates me. There is something in it that incites me to violate him, an excess that defies me... and I hear myself utter these threatening syllables:
"On your knees!" and he kneels.
"On all fours!" and he obeys.
"Head down!" His head sinks toward the floor.
"Don't bend your back!" His shoulders are in perfect alignment with his buttocks.
There is hardly any "give" in that couch of flesh when I lie down on it, my head resting between his shoulder blades. A little to the side, the Black sits cross-legged on the floor, his palms turned up, waiting for our next command. At this moment, he is watching me attentively. As I start moving my arms to put my hands on Sebastian's belly, the open flap of my dress slips off me and leaves me almost entirely uncovered. I leap to my feet. The Black has lowered his eyes. That's good.
Then what happens? Fog... forgetfulness... never mind, only a little time can have passed between the servant's lowered gaze and what I see next: a leather whip nonchalantly resting on Sebastian's back, a whip with multiple thongs spread out like a fan, thongs that fall back, softly, onto his thighs, between the buttocks-and farther away, Françoise leading Marie to the fireplace and making her sit down with her back to the fire. She caresses Marie's lips with one hand and with the other starts unbuttoning the woman's black lace bodice, baring her shoulders and arms. As it slides off, the bodice stops for a moment at the wrists, then drops onto the white marble of the hearthstone.
Unfastened, her wide skirt falls around her ankles and high-heeled shoes. Marie is wearing a pair of my sheer black stockings, pulled up very high, almost to the groin, held by narrow garters, and, according to my wishes, black silk lingerie.
Françoise strips her of that lingerie after she has admired it and tested the silkiness of Marie's skin at the edge of the material.
Now my pretty friend is naked. Her only ornament is a marcasite bead that
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