The girl

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

After seeing the shabby room, O described it to René truthfully. René then offered a suggestion that would drastically change their lives: Jacqueline should move in with O. The reason Jacqueline ultimately accepted this suggestion was simply because of her family.

In fact, using the word "family" here is a serious mistake: it was a clan, or rather, a tribe. Grandmother, mother, aunt, and a maid—four women between fifty and seventy years old—were constantly bickering, heavily made up, shrouded in agate ornaments and black silk dresses, rising at four in the morning to weep and lament under the dim red light of icons, and spending their days enveloped in cigarette smoke. These four women were

drowned out by the clinking of teacups and the shrill shouts of their language, the very language Jacqueline desperately wanted to forget. The fact that she obeyed their commands, merely listening to them speak, or even just visiting them, seemed like madness. Whenever Jacqueline saw her mother grab a piece of candy and pop it into her mouth before drinking her tea, she would put down her own cup, return to her dusty room, and leave the three of them behind—her grandmother, her mother, and her mother's sister, with their dyed black hair, furrowed brows, and wide, vacant eyes like those of a female animal. In that room, which served as both her mother's bedroom and living room, there was a fourth woman, the maid, just like the other three.

She would slam the door shut behind her as if fleeing, while they continued calling her name, "Shura, Shura, little dove"—it was exactly like a scene from a Tolstoy novel. Her real name wasn't Jacqueline; Jacqueline was her professional name, a name she adopted to forget her real name. With this name, this melancholic yet gentle little woman stood in the French sun, in a real world where a man wouldn't disappear after marrying you, like her father, whom she had never met, who vanished into the vast Arctic wilderness and never returned.

She resembled him so much, a fact that filled her with a complex mix of anger and satisfaction. She had his hair and high cheekbones, his skin tone and his slightly squinting eyes. The only thing she was grateful for from her mother was that she had given her such a blond devil as a father, a devil created from ice and snow, not clay like others.

What infuriated her was that her mother had so quickly forgotten her father, had an affair, and on a sunny day, had given birth to a dark-skinned little girl with a man they didn't know—her half-sister, Nathalie. Now she was fifteen, only visiting them on holidays.

Her father never visited, but he provided Natalie with room and board at a preparatory school not far from Paris and sent her mother a small amount of money each month. On this meager sum, the three women, along with the maid and even Jacqueline, eked out a living, poor but carefree and idyllic.

Jacqueline's modeling earnings, aside from buying her own clothes, lingerie, shoes, and gowns—all from the latest boutiques—were shockingly expensive, despite the discounts she received as a model. All of it was swallowed up by the family's insatiable greed; only God knew where it all went.

Of course, Jacqueline could have found a lover who could support her; she had no shortage of opportunities, and in fact, she had one or two. As for her reasons for having lovers, a less important one was that she genuinely liked them, not completely disliked them; the more important reason was that she wanted to prove to herself that she had the ability to arouse a man's desire and make him fall in love with her.

Her second lover was a wealthy man who gave her a lovely light pink pearl ring, which she wore on her left hand. She refused to live with him because he didn't want to marry her. She eventually left him, not too regretting it, only relieved that she wasn't pregnant (she had thought she was pregnant and those days were filled with anxiety and despair). No, living with a lover was shameful and would jeopardize future opportunities; wouldn't that be repeating the mistakes of her mother and Natalie's father? That was absolutely out of the question.

However, living with O was a completely different matter. Jacqueline had a plausible excuse: she lied and said she was moving in with a female friend to split the housing costs. O's role was twofold: first, to support or help the girl René loved; second, to provide Jacqueline with moral protection. This second role was theoretically opposed to the first.

René's presence wasn't formally part of this arrangement, but who knows if René's shadow was behind Jacqueline's decision? Perhaps René's presence was her true motivation for accepting the suggestion. Things had escalated to the point where O herself, and only she, had to tell Jacqueline's mother about it.

As she stood before the woman, speaking these words and receiving repeated thanks for O's kindness to her daughter, O felt a sensation she had never experienced before. She was acutely aware that she was playing the role of a traitor and a spy, like an emissary sent by some criminal organization.

At the same time, deep down, O constantly questioned her mission, denied the true reason for bringing Jacqueline to her home. Yes, Jacqueline was moving in, but she absolutely could not, absolutely could not, accept Mr. Stephen's entire plan and hand her over to him.

However, things unfolded in a way she hadn't anticipated. At René's request, Jacqueline moved into the room he had lied about being his bedroom (here, "lied" is used because he always slept in O's large bed).

Shortly after she moved into O's house, O was surprised to find herself completely consumed by a burning desire to possess Jacqueline at all costs, even if it meant handing her over to Mr. Stephen.

She consoled herself, thinking that Jacqueline's beauty was enough to protect her, and besides, why should she care? If she had to go through what she had gone through, so what? Was it really that terrible? Though she didn't want to admit it, she couldn't help but imagine how sweet it would be to see Jacqueline beside her, naked and pitiful like herself.

Jacqueline had already obtained her mother's full consent. During the week she moved in, René was exceptionally hospitable, inviting them to dinner every other day and taking them to the movies. Strangely, he chose detective films, drug-related films, and films about white slaves (white women forced into prostitution).

He always sat between them, gently holding their hands, without saying a word. However, whenever a violent scene appeared on screen, O would see him observing the subtle changes in Jacqueline's expression. He only saw one expression: a slight downward turn of her lips in disgust.

After the movie, he drove them home in his canvas-topped car. They rolled down the top and the car windows. The speed of the car and the night wind blew Jacqueline's thick blonde hair across her cheeks, her narrow forehead, and even into her eyes. She shook her head, letting her hair return to its original shape, and combed it with her hands like a boy.

Once she lived with O and accepted the fact that O was René's lover, René's outrageous behavior seemed perfectly natural to her. When René pretended to go into her room to look for something he had left there, she wasn't startled at all. However, O knew he was pretending because she herself had emptied every drawer of that exquisitely designed Dutch-style writing desk, with leather-edged shelves, which was usually open—completely unlike René.

Why would he have such a desk? Where did he get it? Its extremely elegant shape and light-colored wood created a luxurious atmosphere in that slightly dim room. The room overlooked the backyard to the north, with steel-gray walls and cold, thickly waxed floors.

All of this contrasted sharply with the room facing the Seine, a room that was pleasing to the eye. This contrast could have created the effect that Jacqueline, after staying there for a while, would have been unhappy and would have been willing to share the sunny room with O, willing to share a bed with him, just as she had agreed the day before to share the bathroom, kitchen, cosmetics, perfume, and meals.

O was mistaken in this respect. Jacqueline was deeply attached to everything that belonged to her, such as the pink pearl ring, and had absolutely no interest in anything that didn't belong to her. Even if she lived in a palace, she wouldn't be interested in it until someone told her it was hers and presented a notarized deed to prove it.

She didn't even notice whether the gray room was pleasant or not, and she didn't end up in O's bed to escape that room. She didn't agree to do so to express gratitude to O, because she didn't feel she owed him any thanks.

But O always assumed that Jacqueline did this out of gratitude for being provided with housing, and reveled in this idea—perhaps she only thought she was reveling in it. In reality, Jacqueline simply enjoyed the feeling of pleasure, and she believed that deriving this pleasure from a woman was both beneficial and pleasurable. In a woman's hands, she could do as she pleased without any danger.

Since she moved in, O had helped her unpack and organize her belongings. On the fifth day after she moved in, after René had treated them to dinner for the third time, and after he had driven them home around ten o'clock and left (as had happened the other two times), she went straight to O's door, completely naked and still wet from a shower. She asked O,

"Are you sure he won't come back?"

Then, without waiting for O's answer, she climbed onto her large bed. She allowed O to kiss her and caress her. She closed her eyes, not responding to any of the caresses. At first, she moaned softly, softer than a whisper, then the moans gradually grew louder until they became a sound.

She lay sprawled on the bed, knees apart, legs stretched out, upper body slightly tilted to one side, arms outstretched, bathed in the light of the pink lamp. A few beads of sweat glistened between her breasts. Two hours later, when O wanted her again, in the darkness, Jacqueline didn't resist, only murmuring,

"Don't tire me out too much, I have to get up early tomorrow morning."

During this time, besides her intermittent modeling work, Jacqueline threw herself into a more energy-consuming and uncertain career: playing small roles in movies. Was she proud of it? Did she believe it was the first step towards fame? It was hard to say. Every morning, she forced herself out of bed, her emotions seemingly more angry than enthusiastic.

After showering and quickly putting on makeup, she only drank a large cup of coffee for breakfast, hastily prepared for her by O, and then allowed O to kiss her fingertips, only to be met with a mechanical smile and a resentful expression. She looked incredibly delicate and languid in her white camel-hair bathrobe, and although she had combed her hair and washed her face, she seemed ready to go back to bed. But that wasn't the case. O still didn't have the courage to explain this to Jacqueline. In fact, every day when Jacqueline went to the film studio in Block B to shoot a movie—the time when children went to school and office workers went to work—O also began to dress neatly, whereas in the past she had indeed spent that time at home.

"I'll send my car," Mr. Stephen said, "to take Jacqueline to Block B, and then pick you up."

So O found herself arriving at Mr. Stephen's house every morning before the sun was fully up in the east, the courtyard wall still hidden in cool shadow, but the shadows in the garden already beginning to shorten.

On Politico, the morning cleaning was not yet finished. Nora, the half-breed maid, led O into the small bedroom. It was there, on her first night in this house, that Mr. Stephen had left her alone to sleep and sob. The servant waited for O to place her gloves, purse, and clothes on the bed, then took them and put them in a closet that only she had a key to, right in front of O. Then she handed O a pair of shiny leather high heels that clicked sharply as she walked on the floor. Nora led her through the doors, finally reaching Mr. Stephen's study, then stepped aside to let O in.

O had always found this preparation process difficult; even now, she couldn't get used to undressing in front of this patient old woman. She never spoke a word to O, barely glancing at her, which made O feel that undressing in front of her was as dangerous and chilling as undressing in front of the servants in Rossi. The old woman, wearing felt slippers, walked silently like a nun. Following behind her, O couldn't take her eyes off the two dots on her rough-knitted headscarf; whenever she opened a door, O couldn't take her eyes off her dark, thin hand gripping the porcelain doorknob, a hand that looked as stiff as wood.

At the same time, contrary to the dread evoked by this old woman, it was an inexplicable paradox—a sense of pride. She considered Mr. Stephen's servant (what was her relationship with Mr. Stephen, and why would he entrust her with the task of dressing and makeup? She seemed utterly unsuitable for it) a witness, a testament that O was also someone worthy of Mr. Stephen's service, like many others, like those she had brought to Mr. Stephen in the same way. Why couldn't she think so? Perhaps Mr. Stephen truly loved her; there was no doubt he did.

She had a feeling that the time was not far off when he would no longer let her have any doubts about this and would publicly announce it to her. As his love and desire for her grew each day, his attitude towards her was becoming more thorough, more persistent, and more deliberately demanding. She stayed by his side all morning.

During this time, he sometimes barely looked at her, simply waiting for her to caress him. She did everything he asked of her with gratitude, a feeling that intensified when his demands took the form of commands. Each act of devotion was, in her mind, a promise, a promise to be devoted again for the next time, which she performed with the utmost dutifulness. It was a strange thing for a person to be content in such a situation, yet she truly felt this way.

Mr. Stephen's office was upstairs, directly above the yellowish-grey drawing room where he always liked to spend his nights. It was a small room with low ceilings, containing neither benches nor sofas, only two Regency-style armchairs upholstered in patterned brocade cushions. Sometimes O would sit at one of the tables, but Mr. Stephen generally preferred her to be within easy reach.

When he was busy with other things, he would have her sit at his desk, to his left. The right side of the desk was against the wall, so O could sit against her left leg. Whenever the telephone rang, she would startle first, then pick up the receiver and ask, "Who is this?" Then she would loudly repeat the name and hand the phone to Mr. Stephen.

If he gave her a hint, she would say he wasn't there. Whenever someone came to visit, old Nora would inform Mr. Stephen, who would always make the visitor wait a little while, giving Nora enough time to take O back to the room where she had undressed. After the guest left, Nora would come to the room again and take O back when she heard Mr. Stephen ring for her.

Because Nora had to go in and out of the study several times every morning: to bring Mr. Stephen coffee or mail, to open or close the blinds, to clean the ashtray; because she was the only one authorized to enter and had the privilege of not knocking; and because she always waited silently until Mr. Stephen asked her something before speaking, one time when Nora came in, she saw O leaning over the desk, her buttocks raised high, her head and arms resting on the leather tabletop, waiting for Mr. Stephen to do *that*.

O looked up. Nora never looked at her, and if she hadn't glanced at O this time, O would never have made any further move. But this time, Nora clearly wanted to get O's attention; her dark eyes were fixed on hers. O couldn't tell if it was indifference or something else. Those eyes, deep in their sockets against a cold face, made O very uneasy, so much so that she began to shift her body, trying to get away from Mr. Stephen.

He pressed one hand firmly against her waist, pinning her body to the table, while using his other hand to spread her legs. She, who always tried her best to cooperate, involuntarily became tense and stiff this time, but Mr. Stephen continued to force his way in. Even after he was inside, she could still feel the muscles around her anus gripping him tightly, making it almost impossible for him to fully insert his penis.

He only withdrew when he could move in and out freely. Then, when he wanted to have her again, he asked Nora to wait a moment and instructed her to help her dress after he was finished. Before letting her go, he gently kissed her lips; it was this kiss that gave her the courage to tell him a few days later that Nora had frightened her.

“I’m hoping so,” he said gleefully. “And once you’ve been marked with my mark and worn my ‘iron,’ if you’re willing, I believe it will be just around the corner, and you’ll have even more reason to fear her.”

“Why?” O asked. “What mark? What iron? I’m already wearing this ring…”

“That depends on Anne-Marie’s arrangements. I’ve promised to take you to see her; we’ll visit her after lunch. I don’t think you’ll object, will you? She’s a friend of mine, and you may have noticed that I haven’t introduced you to my friends until now. After Anne-Marie has done what you’re supposed to do, I’ll tell you the real reason you should be afraid of Nora.”

O dared not delve any further. Compared to Nora, Anne-Marie, whom they used to frighten her, aroused her greater curiosity. Mr. Stephen had mentioned her name at the Saint-Cloud Hotel that time. Indeed, she knew neither any of Mr. Stephen's friends nor acquaintances. In short, she was in Paris, yet locked away in her own secrets, like someone locked in a brothel. Only René and Mr. Stephen possessed the key to unlock her secrets, and also the key to unlock her body.

She was always involuntarily thinking of the phrase "to open oneself to someone," which meant to offer oneself up. For her, this phrase had only one meaning: the meaning most accurately reflected in its literal, material essence, and unequivocal—the offering of every part of her body that could be opened. In her view, this was the very purpose of her existence. Mr. Stephen saw her this way, and so did René.

Because whenever he spoke of his friends, as he had done with them at the Saint-Cloud Hotel, he always told her this: those he would introduce her to, needless to say, were free to do with her as they pleased, whatever their desires might be. Try to guess Anne's thoughts. What kind of person was Mary? What did Mr. Stephen want from her? And why were these things relevant to her?

O was completely clueless about all of this; even Rosie's experiences couldn't help her. Mr. Stephen had mentioned wanting to see her caress another woman—could it be something like that? (But he specifically emphasized that he only meant Jacqueline…) No, it couldn't be that. He just said, "Take her to see," and he really did say that. But after meeting Anne-Marie, O didn't understand anything more about what was about to happen than before.

Anne-Marie lived in a building near the Paris Observatory, with a studio on one side. She lived on the roof of this modern building, overlooking the treetops from her window. She was a slender woman, about the same age as Mr. Stephen, with strands of gray in her black hair. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue, almost black.

She poured coffee for O and Mr. Stephen, in small cups, unusually strong and hot, which restored O's confidence. As she finished her coffee and stood up to place the empty cup on the table, Anne Mary grabbed her wrist, turned to Mr. Stephen, and said,

“May I?”

“Please,” said Mr. Stephen.

Until this moment, Anne Mary had neither spoken to O, nor smiled at her, nor even greeted her, nor responded to Mr. Stephen’s introduction. Now she began to speak to her in an extremely gentle tone, her smile so soft, as if she were preparing to give her a gift:

“Come, my child, let me see your lower body and buttocks, but it would be best if you first took off all your clothes.”

As O undressed, she lit a cigarette. Mr. Stephen never took his eyes off O. They left her standing there for about five minutes. There was no mirror in the room, but O saw her blurry reflection in a black lacquered screen.

“Take off your stockings too,” Anne said. “You see,” Mary said suddenly, “you shouldn’t wear stockings; they’ll ruin your thighs.” She pointed to the area above O’s knee, where O always rolled up her wide, elastic stockings. There was a faint line there.

“Who told you to roll them up like that?”

Before O could answer, Mr. Stephen interrupted:

“The boy who gave her to me, you know him, René.” Then he added, “But I’m sure he’ll agree with you.”

“I’m glad you say that,” Anne said. Mary said, “I’ll give you some dark stockings, and some corsets to hold them in place, the whalebone kind, the kind that sits right at the waist.”

Anne. Mary rang a bell and summoned a silent blonde girl who brought some thin, sheer black stockings and black nylon taffeta corsets, which cinched in from below the abdomen and above the hips, reinforced with wide, dense elastic bands. Still standing, she took turns putting on the stockings, one foot at a time, the other up to her thighs.

The blonde helped her put on a corset, with a row of buttons on each side, like Rosie's bra. This corset could be tightened or loosened at will, with straps at the back. The stockings were secured with four garters, front and back, and then the belt the girl had tied around her waist was fastened as tightly as possible. She felt her waist and abdomen constricted by the corset; the front almost covered her pubic bone, but her genitals and buttocks were exposed. The back of the corset was very short, leaving her buttocks completely exposed.

"Her appearance will be greatly improved," Anne Mary said to Mr. Stephen. "Her waist will be much thinner than it is now. And you can see, if you can't wait for her to undress, this corset won't be a problem at all. Now come here."

The girl had quietly left. She turned to Anne. Mary went over and found her sitting on a low chair, a small armchair with a bright red velvet cushion. Anne. Mary's hand gently slid over her hips, then pushed her onto a low stool also covered in bright red velvet, ordering her not to move as she grasped her labia.

She thought, "That's how people grab fish by the gills and lift them up in the market, that's how they pry open a horse's mouth!" She recalled the servant Bill, who had done the same thing the night before she arrived in Rossi, after he had chained her. In short, she was no longer the master of her own destiny, and one could say that the parts of her body she had the least control over were precisely those parts that would be used alone. Why was she always alarmed when she realized this? Perhaps "alarmed" isn't quite right here; she always had to convince herself otherwise. Why was she always filled with the same deep depression, a reluctance to surrender herself so completely to the other person, at least not as completely as to the man who would eventually hand her over to someone else?

That time, through the possession of another, she felt closer to René; but here, with whom could this devotion bring her closer? René or Monsieur Stephen? She could no longer explain these things… because she didn’t want to know, when in fact it was all too clear: how long had she belonged to Mr. Stephen…?

Anne. Mary helped her to stand up and get dressed.

“You can bring her to me whenever you think it’s appropriate,” she told Mr. Stephen. “I’ll be in Symos within two days. (Symus? Oh, I always thought it would be Rossie. If this isn’t Rossie, then what does it mean for her?) Things will be done.” (What will be done?)

“Within ten days, if it

’s convenient for you,” said Mr. Stephen, “in early July.” Mr. Stephen stayed with Anne. Mary, and on the drive home, he recalled a statue he had seen as a child in the Luxembourg Gardens: a woman with a cinched waist, her figure exceptionally slender between her full breasts and hips, gazing down at the clear spring, the water as calm and clear as her expression. The statue, meticulously sculpted from marble, looked so fragile gazing at its reflection in the water; she feared the marble's slender waist might suddenly snap. But if this was what Mr. Stephen wanted…

She also wondered how to explain all this to Jacqueline; perhaps she could simply tell her that the corset came from a sudden whim of René's. This stirred up a situation she had been trying to avoid lately, a situation that surprised her greatly: since Jacqueline had moved in with her, René hadn't made an effort to keep her alone with Jacqueline. If that was understandable, what she couldn't understand was that he himself also tried to avoid being alone with her.

July was fast approaching; he would be leaving Paris and wouldn't

see her when Mr. Stephen took her to Anne-Marie. She might have to accept the fact that she would only see him on the nights he wanted to see both Jacqueline and her; or only occasionally when she was with Mr. Stephen, following Nora into the room. She didn't know which possibility made her more uneasy.

(Something must be wrong between the two possibilities, because their relationship was too constrained.)

Every time René came to Mr. Stephen's house, Mr. Stephen would greet him, and René would always kiss O, caress her nipple, and then discuss the next day's plans with Mr. Stephen—plans that never included O—before leaving. He had given her to Mr. Stephen so completely; did he no longer love her? This thought threw O into a panic, so much so that she mechanically got out of the car next to her house, forgetting to tell the driver to wait for her at the door. Only after the car drove away did she realize her mistake and hurriedly hailed a taxi. O had

to run all the way to S Street, where she would have to wait for a taxi. She was almost out of breath, covered in sweat, because her tight-fitting clothes made it difficult to breathe. Finally, a taxi slowed down at the intersection of C Street. She flagged it down, and as soon as she got in, she gave the driver the address of René's office. She didn't know if René was in his office, nor whether he wanted to see her: this was her first time in his office.

When O saw the imposing building on a side street not far from E Street, she wasn't surprised at all; the large American-style office was exactly what she expected. But René's attitude made her uneasy. Although he immediately received her and wasn't rude, she didn't blame him.

In fact, she could have been blamed for this action, because he had never given her the right to bother him in his office, and it was very likely that her arrival had already caused him considerable disturbance.

He asked his secretary to leave, told her he wouldn't see anyone for a while, and asked her not to answer the phone for the time being, then he asked O what was wrong.

"I'm worried you don't love me anymore," O said.

He laughed. "Just like that?"

"Yes, it occurred to me in the car on the way back."

"From where?"

O fell silent.

René laughed again:

“But I know where you’ve been, silly. You’re back from Anne-Marie’s, and you’re going to Symos in ten days. Mr. Stephen just spoke to me on the phone.”

René sat in the chair at his desk, the only comfortable chair in the office, and nestled into his embrace.

“They can do whatever they want to me, I don’t care,” she murmured, “but tell me you still love me.”

“Of course I love you, dear,” René said, “but I want you to obey me, and I’m afraid you haven’t done that very well. Have you told Jacqueline that you belong to Mr. Stephen? Have you spoken to her about Rossie?”

She admitted she hadn’t. Jacqueline had only reluctantly accepted his caresses, but the day had come for her to know the truth about me…

René didn’t let her finish the sentence before picking her up and placing her in the chair he had just been sitting in, lifting her skirt with his hand.

“Ah, so you’re wearing your corset now,” he said. “Not bad, you’d be even more alluring if your waist were a little thinner.”

After saying this, he took her, feeling it had been far too long since he’d done it. Subconsciously, she began to doubt whether he still desired her, yet in his actions at this moment, she saw evidence of love.

“You know,” he later said, “it would be foolish of you not to make things clear with Jacqueline. We absolutely need her to go to Rossie, and the easiest way to get her there is through you. And once you return from Anne Mary, you’ll have no way to continue hiding your true situation.”

She wondered why.

“You’ll find out,” René continued. “You have five days, only five days, because from the five days before Mr. Stephen sent you to Anne Mary, he was preparing to resume his daily whippings. You’ll have no way to hide those welts anymore. How are you going to explain them to Jacqueline?”

She didn’t answer. René was unaware that Jacqueline was completely self-centered in her relationship with O. Her interest in O stemmed solely from the enthusiasm and interest he displayed towards her; she never truly observed him. If O had whip marks, he simply avoided bathing in front of her and wore a robe. Jacqueline would never notice anything—she never noticed O wasn't wearing underwear, nor anything else: in fact, O didn't interest her at all.

“Listen to me,” René continued, “there’s something I want you to tell her, tell her right now, that I’ve fallen in love with her.”

“Is that true?” O said.

“I need her,” René said, “because you can’t, or won’t, do it yourself, I’ll do it myself, do everything that has to be done.”

“You’ll never be able to get her to agree to go to Rossi,” O said.

“Can’t I? If I did,” René retorted, “we’d force her to go.”

That night, after dark, Jacqueline was already in bed, O pulled back her covers and gazed at her in the lamplight. She had already told her, “Rénez has fallen in love with you, you know that?” She had conveyed this message, and not a month earlier, O had been horrified just imagining that elegant, slender body marked with whip marks, that narrow organ filled, those pure lips crying out, tears streaming down the beautiful downy hair on her cheeks; but now it was different, O felt a surge of joy as she repeated René’s last words to herself.

Since Jacqueline was away filming and wouldn't be back until August, there was nothing for O to do in Paris. July was fast approaching, and all the gardens in Paris were bursting with crimson geraniums.

At midday, all the shutters in the city were closed, and René complained about having to go to Scotland.

For a moment, O wished he could take her with him, but needless to say, he had never taken her to visit his family, and she knew that if Mr. Stephen asked for her, René would hand her over immediately.

Mr. Stephen announced that he would come to pick her up the day René flew to London, when she was on holiday.

"We're going to Anne-Marie's," he said. "She's waiting for you! Don't pack, you don't need to take anything."

This wasn't the first time O had seen Anne. Mary wasn't in the building near the observatory, but a low, two-story house at the end of a large garden, on the edge of Fontainebleau. From the day she first met her, O had been wearing that whalebone corset, Anne. Mary considered this essential. Each day she tightened it a little more, and by now her waist was so slender it could be grasped in one hand, Anne. Mary should be satisfied.

They arrived at two o'clock in the afternoon, and the whole house was asleep. When they rang the bell, the dog barked weakly: it was a large, furry sheepdog, and it burrowed under O's skirt, sniffing her legs. Anne. Mary was sitting under a copper-colored beech tree, which stood at the edge of the lawn in a corner of the garden, facing her bedroom, and she did not rise to greet them.

"O's here," said Mr. Stephen, "You know what to do with her. When can she be done?"

Anne. Mary glanced at O. "So you haven't told her yet? Well, I'll begin immediately, about ten days. I suppose you want the iron ring and your initials? Come back in two weeks, and it will be all done in two weeks after that."

O wanted to ask a question.

"Wait a minute, O," Anne said. “Go to the front bedroom,” Mary said, “and take off all your clothes, but not your heels, then come back.”

The room was a large, white-painted bedroom with deep purple floral patterns on the windows; it seemed empty. She placed her purse, gloves, and clothes on a chair near the door. There was no mirror in the room. She stepped out, the bright sunlight dazzling her, and slowly walked back into the shade of the beech trees. Mr. Stephen was still standing before Anne. Mary, the dog lying at his feet. Anne. Mary’s black hair was streaked with gray, shimmering as if she had applied some kind of hair serum, and her blue eyes appeared almost black. She wore a white dress with a gleaming leather belt around her waist, and her bright red nail polish peeked out from her sandals, matching her fingernails.

“Oh,” she said, “kneel before Mr. Stephen.”

She obediently knelt, her arms behind her back, her nipples trembling slightly. The dog was tense, as if ready to leap onto her at any moment.

“Lie down, Tuck,” Anne Mary scolded the dog, then said, “Oh, do you agree to use all necessary methods to wear the iron ring and, as Mr. Stephen wishes, have his name imprinted on your body?”

“I agree,” said O.

“Very well then, I’ll go see Mr. Stephen to his carriage; you stay here and don’t move.”

As Anne Mary lowered her feet from the footstool, Mr. Stephen bent down, grasped O’s breast, kissed her lips, and murmured,

“Are you mine? O, are you really mine?”

With that, he turned and followed Anne. Mary left, leaving O there, and the door slammed shut.

Anne Mary returned, and O was still kneeling on her heels, her arms on her knees, like an Egyptian statue.

There were three other girls in the house, each with a bedroom on the second floor. O was placed in a small bedroom on the first floor, connected to Anne Mary’s room. Anne… Mary called them all downstairs to the garden pavilion. Like O, the three girls were also naked. This small kingdom of women was hidden behind high walls, and the shutters overlooking the narrow dirt road outside were all tightly closed. In the entire kingdom of women, only Anne, Mary, and the three servants were dressed; one was a cook, and the other two were maids. They all looked older than Anne and Mary. They wore long black alpaca wool dresses and stiffly starched aprons, and their expressions were somber and solemn.

"Her name is O," Anne said. Mary sat down again and said to everyone, "Bring her here so I can have a good look at her."

The two girls helped O to her feet: they were both of light skin, with dark hair and pubic hair, and their nipples were large and dark, almost purple. The other girl was short, with a head of fluffy red hair, and her snow-white chest was covered with terrible green marks. The two girls pushed O toward Anne Mary, pointing to the three black welts on her body that ran from her thighs to her buttocks:

"Who whipped you?" she asked. "Mr. Stephen?"

"Yes," O replied.

"When? With a riding whip?"

"Three days ago, with a riding whip."

"From tomorrow onwards, you will not be whipped for a month, but today you will be whipped to commemorate your arrival here. I will do it immediately after I have examined you. Did Mr. Stephen spread your legs and whip your inner thighs? No? That's true, men don't know what to do. Well, we'll see soon enough. Let me see your waist, yes, much better than before!"

Anne Mary pressed down on O's waist to make it appear thinner, then she sent the red-haired girl to fetch another corset for her to wear. This one was also made of black nylon, but it was starched particularly stiff and very narrow, looking almost like a wide leather belt. The corset had no straps, and a girl helped O tighten it as much as possible, Anne. Mary insisted that she tie it as tight as possible.

“It’s so uncomfortable,”

Anne said. “I don’t know if I can stand it.” “That’s the whole problem,” Mary said. “You look much cuter than before, and the problem is you didn’t tie it tight enough. You’ll be wearing it like this every day from now on, but tell me now, how does Mr. Stephen like to use you? I need to know that.”

She grasped O's lower body with her whole hand, and O couldn't answer. Two girls sat on the grass, and a third girl, the one with light skin, sat next to Anne Mary's footstool.

"Turn her around, girls, let me see her back," said Anne Mary.

The two girls helped her turn around, bent down, and spread her legs with their hands.

"Of course," Anne Mary continued, "you don't need to tell me the mark must be on your buttocks.

Now you can stand up straight, and we're going to put bracelets on you. Colette, go get the box, we're going to draw lots to decide who will whip you. Get the chips, Colette, and then we'll go to the music room."

Colette was one of the two dark-haired girls, the other named Clary; the little red-haired girl was named Ivory. Only then did O notice that they were all wearing collars like in Rossi, bracelets on their wrists, and the same style of bracelets on their ankles.

After O chose a bracelet that fit her size and had Ivory put it on her, Anne Mary handed O four chips, instructing her to distribute them to each girl without looking at the numbers. O distributed them, and the three girls each looked at their chips, remaining silent and waiting for Anne Mary to speak.

"I got number two," Anne Mary said. "Who got number one?" Colette

got number one.

"Alright, take O with you! She's yours."

Colette grabbed O's arm, put her hands behind her back, locked them together with the bracelet, and then pushed O forward. They passed through a French door and entered a small side room, which formed an L-shape with the main room at a right angle. Ivory took off her high heels and led the way.
In the light streaming through the French door, they could see a slightly sloping circular building at the far end of the room, with a shallowly arched ceiling supported by two thin pillars six feet apart. The stage, about four feet high, sat between two pillars, its front edge slightly arched outwards. Like the rest of the room, it was covered with a red felt carpet. The walls were white, with red windows. Facing the stage, a fan-shaped arrangement of armchairs covered in the same red felt carpet. At the other end of the room was a rectangle with a wide but not very deep fireplace. Opposite the fireplace were a large phonograph and radio, flanked by record racks—this was why the room was called the music room. A door beside the fireplace connected directly to Anne Mary's room, and on the other side of the fireplace was an identical door leading to a wardrobe. Besides the phonograph and sofas, the room was unfurnished.

Right in the middle of the two pillars, the edge of the stage was perpendicular to the ground, with steps on the outer side of the pillars. Colette had O sit on the very edge of the stage in the center. The other two girls first slightly closed the Venetian shutters, then closed the French door, which O was surprised to find was a double door.

Anne... Mary laughed and said, “That way no one will hear your screams anymore. The walls are corked; don't worry, no one will hear a single sound from here. Now lie down.”

She grabbed O’s shoulders, making her lie on her back, and then pulled her up a little. Ivory locked her hands to an iron ring on the stage, O gripped the edge of the stage with both hands, her hips dangling in the air, Anne. Mary pulled her legs towards her chest, and then O suddenly felt her curled-up legs straighten and tighten: two leather straps on her ankle bracelets pulled her legs apart and tied them to the pillars on either side, so she lay there on the raised stage between the two pillars. From below, the only visible parts of her body were her genitals and the two wide-open slits of her buttocks, Anne. Mary was stroking the inside of her thighs.

“This is the most tender part of your body,” she said. “Be careful not to hurt it. Don’t hit too hard, Colette.”

Colette stood high above O at waist level, beneath the bridge formed by O’s dark thighs, and O saw the leather straps on the whip swaying in her hand. O groaned when the first, burning blow came.

Colette moved from left to right, paused briefly, and lashed out again. O struggled desperately, feeling as if the two straps were going to tear her apart. She didn’t want to submit, didn’t want to beg for mercy, yet those were the very words Anne Mary wanted to force out of her.

“Faster,” she said to Colette, “harder.”

O tried desperately to endure it, but it was no use. After only a minute, she could no longer bear it; she screamed, tears streaming down her face. Anne Mary stroked her face.

“Just a little longer,” she said. “It’ll be over soon. Five more minutes. She can cry and scream for five more minutes. It’s been twenty-five minutes, Colette. I’ll tell you to stop at thirty.”

But O was screaming, “No, no, for God’s sake!” She cried and screamed. She couldn’t take it anymore, no, she couldn’t endure this torture for another second. Yet, she made it through. Colette left the small stage, and Anne Mary was smiling at her.

“You should thank me for this,” she said to O. So O thanked her.

She knew very well why Anne Mary’s favorite thing to do was whip her. Women were as cruel as men, even more merciless, O had never doubted. But O guessed that Anne Mary wasn’t so keen on establishing her own image of authority, but rather hoped to establish a sense of complicity between her and O. O never truly understood, but she eventually accepted this undeniably important truth, this emotionally charged mixture of conviction and contradiction: she enjoyed corporal punishment, yet when it was her who was being punished, she desperately wanted to escape it; however, after the punishment was over, she felt pleasure for the experience, and the more cruel and prolonged the punishment, the stronger her pleasure.

Anne Mary was right; she foresaw O's acquiescence and her rebellious spirit, knowing that her pleas for mercy were truly heartfelt. She also explained to O a third reason for doing so: she was determined to prove to every girl who came to her and to those destined to live in a purely female world that one's femininity should not be diminished or reduced because of the presence of women around her; on the contrary, her femininity should be deepened and strengthened.

This was why she demanded that the girls remain naked, and the way O was whipped and bound was all for this purpose. Today, O had three more hours this afternoon to stand on stage with her legs spread wide in public display. Tomorrow, it will be Clara, or Colette, or Ivory, and O will be watching. This technique is a gentler and more subtle way than Rossi's (including the use of whips).

But O will see how effective it is, and besides the iron ring and the lettering she will wear when she leaves, she will return to Mr. Stephen with a more open attitude, sinking deeper into slavery than she has anticipated.

The next morning, after breakfast, Anne Mary asked O and Ivory to come with her to her bedroom.

She took a green leather trunk from her desk, placed it on the bed, and opened it. The two girls knelt beside her.

"Did Ivory tell you about this?" Anne Mary asked O.

O shook her head. What would Ivory tell her?

"And as far as I know, Mr. Stephen hasn't mentioned it either. That's alright. This is the iron ring he wants to put on you."

The ring wasn't made of steel, it wasn't polished, and it had the same dull color as the gold iron ring. They were oval-shaped, like one of the rings in a heavy chain, the metal rings about the same thickness as the diameter of a large colored pencil. Anne Mary pointed out that each ring consisted of two U-shaped semicircles that fit together perfectly.

“This is just a prototype,” she said. “You can take it off after you put it on. And look at the permanent one; it has a spring inside, and with a gentle press, it locks into the other half of the ring. Only a steel file can open it.”

Each ring was about the length of two segments of a little finger, and a little finger could fit inside. These rings hung in a row like earrings, and at the earlobe position was a circular metal plate, about the same size as the diameter of the ring. One side of the plate had a gold emblem, and the other side was blank.

“This blank side will be imprinted with your name, your title, and Mr. Stephen’s name,” Anne Mary said. “Above the name is a cross of whips and riding crop. Ivory wears such a plate on her collar, but yours will be worn on your genitals.”

“But…” she said, mustering her courage.

“I know,” Anne Mary replied, “that’s why I called Ivory along. Let’s see yours, Ivory.”

The redhead stood up and then lay back on the bed, Anne. Mary parted her thighs, and O saw a perfectly round hole punched in one of her labia, just below the center, just big enough to fit the iron ring.

“I’ll make the hole right away, O,” Anne Mary said. “It’s not difficult. The most time-consuming part is inserting a small clamp into the hole to scavenge the outer skin to the inner skin. That’s much easier to bear than whipping.”

“You mean you won’t give me anesthesia?” O cried out, trembling.

“Of course not,” Anne Mary replied. “Just tie you up a little tighter than yesterday. That’s enough. Now.”

A week later, Anne Mary removed the clamp and placed the test model inside. It was lighter than it appeared, being hollow, but O could still feel its weight. The hard metal was conspicuously embedded in the flesh, looking like a torture device. What would happen when the weight of the second ring was added? This barbaric instrument of torture was so conspicuous that it would be immediately noticed at a glance.

“Of course it will be discovered,” O said as she pointed this out to Anne Mary. “Don’t you understand what Mr. Stephen is asking for? He's asking that anyone, whether in Rossie or anywhere else, whether it's Mr. Stephen or anyone else, even when you're standing in front of the mirror, as soon as you lift your skirt, will immediately see his ring on your genitals; as soon as you turn around, you'll see the initials of his name on your buttocks. You might file the ring off someday, but the mark on your buttocks will never be gone.”

“I think the tattoo is something that can be removed,” Colette said.

(Ivonne was tattooed; on her snow-white skin above her genitals, Ivonne’s initials and blue letters in cursive script were tattooed there, just like the letters you embroidered.)

“O, not the tattoo,” Anne Mary replied.

O looked at Anne Mary, Colette, and Ivonne, who were also surprised but said nothing. Anne Mary searched for words.

“Say it,” O said.

“My poor girl, I hardly have the courage to tell you: you will be branded: Mr. Stephen sent the branding mold two days ago.”

“Branded?” Ivory exclaimed, “with a red-hot iron?”

From day one, they had shared a common life in this house. Leisure, absolute leisure, intentionally created leisure—that was daily life, punctuated by a few tedious pastimes. The girls were free to stroll in the garden, read, draw, play cards, and solitaire; they could sleep in their rooms or sunbathe on the grass; sometimes they would chat for hours; sometimes they would sit silently beside Anne Mary. Meals were always at the same time, with candles lit at the table, tea served in the garden, and the familiar, almost absurd, manner in which two servants attended to the naked women seated around the banquet table.

At night, Anne Mary would designate one of the girls to sleep with her, sometimes even the same girl for several days in a row. She caressed her chosen companion, and let her caress her as well. She always fell asleep close to dawn, and quickly, before telling the girl to return to her room. The purple window was half-open, tinged with the crimson of dawn. Ivory had once said that Anne-Marie was beautifully arrogant and insatiable in her pursuit of pleasure.

No one had ever seen her naked; she only ever lifted or slightly opened her white nylon nightgown, never taking it off completely. Neither the pleasure she had tasted the previous night, nor her choice of companion, influenced her decision the following afternoon, a decision always made by drawing lots. At three o'clock in the afternoon, under the copper-red beech tree, with garden chairs arranged in a circle around the white marble table, Anne-Marie took out the lottery box.

Each girl drew a lot, and whoever drew the lowest-scoring lot would be taken to the music room and tied to the stage, just as she had been on her first day. Then she had to point to Anne. Mary's right or left hand (O didn't need to do this, not until she left this place) held a black ball in one hand and a white ball in the other. If she drew the black one, she was whipped; if she drew the white one, she wasn't.

Anne. Mary never made exceptions, whether fate brought a girl several days of misfortune or release.

That's why little Ivory's punishment lasted four days; she cried out her lover's name, her thighs and chest covered in spiderweb-like welts, her pink flesh pierced by a thick iron ring between her open legs.

She was finally put on that iron ring, which was especially conspicuous since all her pubic hair had been shaved off.

"But why?" O wondered. "You already have metal plates on your collar, why wear the iron ring?"

"He said it would be more exposed when I shaved it clean. That ring, I think, was for tying me up there."

Every time O saw Ivory's green eyes and her pointed little face, she would think of Jacqueline. Has Jacqueline already gone to Rossi? Jacqueline will come here sooner or later, and will she too be bound face-up on this stage?

"I don't want to," O thought, "I don't want to and won't participate in bringing her here. That's it, I've said too much already, Jacqueline isn't the type to be whipped and branded."

But how fitting those whips and iron rings were for little Ivonne! How lovely her moans and sighs were, how lovely her body was soaked in sweat, and how exciting and pleasurable it was to make her moan and sweat! Twice Anne Mary handed O that whip made of a bundle of leather straps, and both times it was Ivonne who made her use it. The first time, she hesitated at the beginning, and O couldn't help but flinch when Ivonne let out her first scream, but once she started again and Ivonne's cries rang out again, she was completely overwhelmed by a tremendous pleasure.

The feeling was so intense that she found herself laughing involuntarily, and that it was almost impossible to restrain herself from whipping Ivonne with all her might. After the whipping, she stayed by Ivonne's side, still bound to the stage, embracing her again and again. In a sense, she was much like Ivonne, at least that's how Anne Mary saw them both.

Was it Ivonne's taciturnity and her submissiveness that made Anne Mary like her so much? Before Ivonne's wounds had healed, Anne Mary said to her:

"How I regret not whipping you myself!... When you come again... But let's not talk about that anymore, anyway, I'm going to open your body every day."

Every day, after the girl brought to the music room was untied, O took her place until the dinner bell rang. Anne Mary was right: during those two hours, she could only think of one thing: that her body was open, that the heavy iron ring hung over her (after she had one ring put on), and that it became even heavier after they put a second ring on her. She could think of nothing but her state of enslavement and the symbol of that state.

One evening, Clary and Colette came to O from the garden to check the two iron rings on either side.

“When you went to Rossie,” Clary asked, “did Anne Mary take you?”

“No,” O said.

“Anne Mary took me, two years ago. I’m going back there the day after tomorrow.”

“Do you belong to someone?” O asked.

“Clary belongs to me,” Anne said. Mary said she had appeared before them suddenly, without them noticing. “Your master will arrive tomorrow, O. You will sleep with me tonight.”

The short summer night, not yet four o'clock, was already brightening, the light obscuring the last stars.

O was sleeping with her legs together when she was suddenly awakened by Anne Mary's hand, which slipped between her thighs. Anne Mary's purpose was to wake O and let her caress her.

Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, her short, slightly curly black hair, studded with a few gray strands, spread upwards on the pillow, making her look like an exiled nobleman, one of those brave and fearless prodigals. O rubbed her hardening nipples with her lips, her hand gently gliding over her groin.

Anne Mary quickly yielded, but not to O. The pleasure that made her stare wide-eyed at the ever-brightening light was an impersonal pleasure, in which O was merely a tool. Anne. Mary paid no heed to the adoring gaze O held upon her face and lips, nor to the fact that O had heard her moans. Her face, for a fleeting moment, shone with youthful radiance. Her lovely lips parted slightly, and she moaned as O's lips and teeth brushed against the small, hidden mound of flesh at her vulva. She grasped O's hair, pulling her closer, releasing her only to give the next command:

"Again, once more."

O had loved Jacqueline in the same way, drawing her completely into her embrace. She had possessed her, or at least she thought so. But mere resemblance in action proved nothing; O had not possessed Anne. Mary, no one had ever possessed Anne. Mary. Anne. Mary demanded caresses but cared not for the feelings of those who offered them, surrendering herself with an arrogant freedom. Yet she was utterly tender and gentle with O, kissing her lips and breasts, holding her tightly for an hour before letting her return to her room.

She removed her iron rings.

“These are your last few hours here,” she said. “You can take off the iron rings and go to sleep. In a little while, we’ll put them back on you, and you’ll never be able to take them off.”

She gently stroked O’s buttocks for a long time, then led her to her own dressing room, the only room in the whole house with three mirrors. She turned on the mirrors so O could see herself.

“This is the last time you’ll see yourself completely intact,” she said. “Here, in this flat, round place, is where Mr. Stephen’s name will be printed, on the two bulges on your buttocks. The day before you leave, I’ll bring you here again so you can see another version of yourself, one you won’t recognize. But Mr. Stephen is right. Now go and get some sleep, O.”

But O was too anxious to fall asleep. At ten o’clock the next morning, when Ivory came to wake her, O was trembling and had to let Ivory help her bathe, comb her hair, and apply lipstick. She heard the garden gate open; Mr. Stephen had arrived.

“Come now, O,” said Ivonne. “He’s waiting for you.”

The sun was high, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The leaves of the beech tree were motionless, as if they were made of bronze. The dog, driven by the heat, lay down beside the roots. Because the sunlight wasn’t completely blocked by the dense shade, it filtered through the leaves, casting bright, warm spots of light on the marble tabletop.

Mr. Stephen stood motionless by the stone table, with Anne-Marie sitting behind him.

“She’s here,” said Anne-Marie as Ivonne brought O to them. “You can put the ring on her anytime; she’s already pierced it.”

Mr. Stephen didn’t answer, but simply took O in his arms, kissed her lips, lifted her, placed her on the stone table, leaned down to kiss her again, stroked her eyebrows and hair, then straightened up and said to Anne-Marie,

“Now if you think it’s appropriate.”

Anne… Mary took out her briefcase, sat down in a chair, and handed the iron rings to Mr. Stephen. They were open, engraved with O's and Mr. Stephen's names.

"We can begin," said Mr. Stephen.

Ivory lifted O's knee, and as Anne Mary put the rings on her, O felt the coldness of the metal. When she slipped the second ring into the first, she made sure the gold side was against her thigh, with the engraved side facing the center. But because the spring was too tight, the lock was difficult to lock in place, and they had to send Ivory to get a hammer. Then they had O sit up, lean back slightly, and place her legs apart on the edge of the table, like on an anvil, and hammered the other end of the ring until it was finally in place. Mr. Stephen watched silently the whole time, without saying a word.

When everything was done, he thanked Anne Mary and helped O to her feet. Only then did she realize that the new iron ring was much heavier than the temporary ones she had worn for the past few days; this time it was permanent.

“Now it’s your name, isn’t it?” Anne Mary said to Mr. Stephen.

Mr. Stephen nodded in agreement, putting his arm around O’s waist. She stumbled as if about to fall.

Although she wasn’t wearing the black corset, her figure had been sculpted to a more ideal shape; her waist was now so slender it looked as if it might break at any moment, and her hips and breasts appeared fuller.

Mr. Stephen practically dragged O into the music room, not leading her. Colette and Clary were sitting by the stage, and the two girls stood up simultaneously as they approached. There was a large, roaring cylinder furnace on the stage. Anne Mary took a belt from the closet and tightly bound O’s waist and knees to a pillar, pressing her stomach against it. They also bound her hands and feet.

O was gripped by extreme fear, feeling only Anne… Mary's hand moved to her buttocks, pointing to the exact location of the brand. In the deathly silence, the hissing of the flames and the sound of a window closing could be heard. She could have turned to look, but she didn't have the courage.

A sharp, piercing pain suddenly pierced her entire body, causing her bound body to tense up instantly. A scream escaped her lips, and she would never know who had branded her buttocks with those two irons simultaneously, who had slowly counted from one to five, or whose hand had signaled the removal of the irons.

After they untied her, she collapsed into Anne Mary's arms, and before everything went black and she finally lost consciousness, she didn't even have time to catch a glimpse of Mr. Stephen's pale face.

Ten days before the end of July, Mr. Stephen drove O back to Paris. The bold, dark lettering on the iron ring on her left labia solemnly declared her Mr. Stephen's personal property. The ring hung down to a third of her thigh, swaying back and forth with each step like a bell's tongue. The metal plate, heavier and longer than the ring, hung there. The two branded letters, three inches long and 1.5 inches wide, were chiseled into the flesh, almost half an inch deep: clearly felt with a light touch.

O was incredibly proud of the ring and the brand; she had no intention of hiding these marks from Jacqueline anymore, just as she had tried to conceal the whip marks Mr. Stephen had left her in the days before she left home. She would find Jacqueline as soon as possible and show her her marks. But Jacqueline wouldn't be back for another week, and René wasn't there either.

During that week, at Mr. Stephen's instruction, O ordered several summer outfits, as well as pajamas made of extremely soft material. He only allowed her to buy two styles of clothing, but she could have several of each style: one style had a zipper that went all the way down in the front (O already had several of these); the other style was a long skirt that could be easily lifted up, always paired with a tight-fitting bodice that covered her breasts at the bottom, and a sleeveless vest that opened in the front

. Once the vest was removed, her shoulders and breasts would be fully exposed, and if anyone wanted to see her breasts, they could simply unbutton it. A bathrobe, of course, was unnecessary; the metal rings would simply protrude from under it anyway. Mr. Stephen told her that whenever she went swimming that summer, she had to be completely naked and was not allowed to wear a beach swimsuit. The rules regarding the two basic styles were proposed by Anne Mary, who knew Mr. Stephen preferred O's style, so she suggested that O could wear a swimsuit with long zippers on both sides, so that her buttocks could be exposed without having to remove her swimsuit.

But Mr. Stephen refused Anne's suggestion. Mary's suggestion, he used O's mouth, and apart from that, he almost always used O like a boy. But O had noticed many times that whenever she was near him, even when he didn't particularly want her, he always liked to hold her vulva with his hand, mechanically holding it, playing with the hair covering it, opening it with his hand and probing his fingers deep inside.

O had also derived pleasure from Jacqueline in the same way; the wetness and heat she had felt on her fingers were proof of the pleasure Mr. Stephen derived from her, and she fully understood why he didn't want any external obstacles to stand in his way to happiness.

Without a hat, without any makeup, with her hair completely loose, wearing a striped or polka-dot blue and white or gray and white ruffled dress, a fitted vest buttoned up to her neck, or her more conservative black nylon dresses, O looked like a well-mannered young girl.

Wherever Mr. Stephen accompanied her, she was always mistaken for his daughter or niece, a misunderstanding compounded by his constant use of "you" (tī) to address her, while she addressed him with the more formal "you" (tǒng).

When they strolled together through the streets of Paris, browsing shop windows, or walking along the dusty cobblestone path of the docks, passersby smiled at them—the kind of smile given to those who seemed happy—and they accepted it with ease.

Occasionally, Mr. Stephen would usher her into a doorway or a dark, musty passageway, always with the musty smell of an old cellar, and kiss her, telling her he loved her. She would

hook her heels on the stone steps of the doorway, the door usually blocked.

They would catch a glimpse of a backyard, a row of clothes hanging in the window. A blonde woman would lean against the veranda, staring intently at them. A cat would dart between their legs.

And so they strolled through the Gobelins district, past Saint-Michael, along Rue Moftard, past a place called the Temple, and finally to the Bastille.

On one occasion, Mr. Stephen abruptly led O into a hotel so shabby it resembled a brothel. There, the waiter first asked them to fill out forms, but then said that if it was only for an hour, there was no need for such trouble. The wallpaper in the room was blue, adorned with many golden peonies, and the window faced a courtyard that reeked of garbage. Despite the dim lighting, they could see traces of powder left on the mantel and hairpins forgotten there. A large mirror hung from the ceiling above the bed.

On one occasion—and only once—Mr. Stephen invited O and two fellow Englishmen passing through Paris to lunch. He arrived at her house an hour early, but this time he didn't take her to his place; instead, he drove her to the B district.

O had already bathed, but hadn't combed her hair, put on makeup, or dressed properly. To her surprise, Mr. Stephen was carrying a golf bag, though it didn't look like it contained golf clubs. Mr. Stephen quickly satisfied her curiosity, instructing her to open the bag, where several whips were revealed: two rather heavy red whips; two thin, long black whips; a whip made of a bundle of green leather straps, one end folded into a loop; a dog whip made of thick leather, the handle woven from leather straps; and the kind of leather bracelet Rossie used, along with some rope.

She took them out one by one and arranged them on the bed, which hadn't been made after she got up. No matter how accustomed she was to whips, and no matter how determined she was to face them, she couldn't help but tremble. Mr. Stephen embraced her.

"Which one do you like, oh?" he asked.

But she couldn't say a word, cold sweat streaming down her arms.

“Which one do you like?” he asked again. “Alright,” seeing she couldn’t speak, he changed his tune, “You help me first.”

He instructed her to fetch some nails and arrange the whips in a decorative, overlapping pattern, creating a design of whips that sat between the dressing mirror and the fireplace, directly opposite her bed—the ideal position.

He hammered nails into the wood, each whip handle having a small iron ring to hang it on. This arrangement ensured that each whip could be easily removed and returned to its original place on the wall after use.

Add the bracelets and ropes, and on the wall opposite the bed, a complete arrangement of her instruments of torture would be visible. This beautiful set of tools was harmoniously arranged, resembling the wheels and nails in a portrait of Saint Catherine, or the nails, hammer, crown of thorns, spear, and whip in a crucifixion.

When Jacqueline returned… but all of this should have included Jacqueline, who was already deeply involved. She ultimately had to answer Mr. Stephen's question: she couldn't, so he chose the dog whip himself.

In a small private room on the third floor of the Bellows Hotel, near the Left Bank pier, the dark walls were painted with figures resembling puppeteers in bright colors and pointillist strokes. She was placed alone on a sofa; one of Mr. Stephen's friends sat in an armchair to her right, another to her left, and Mr. Stephen opposite her.

She remembered one of them, someone she had met in Rossie, but she couldn't recall if he had ever taken her. The other was a tall, red-haired boy with grey eyes, no older than twenty-five.

Mr. Stephen told them why he had invited her there and who she was, introducing her in just a sentence or two.

Listening to his introduction, O was once again shocked by the crudeness of his language. But how could she expect to be introduced to anyone? Even if she wasn't a prostitute, but a young woman, she had, in front of three men (not to mention the waiters coming and going, continuing to serve food), unbuttoned her corset, exposing her breasts, showing them her nipples painted red with lipstick, and revealing the purple welts on her pale skin that indicated she had been whipped.

Lunch was long, and the two Englishmen drank heavily. After coffee, when another round of drinks arrived, Mr. Stephen pushed the table against the opposite wall, lifted O's skirt, and showed his friends the brands and iron rings on her body. Having done this, he took his leave, leaving her with the two men.

The man she met in Rossi wasted no time: he didn't leave his armchair, nor even touch her with his fingertips, but ordered her to kneel before him and caress him until he ejaculated in her mouth. Afterward, he told her to tidy his clothes and then left.

However, the red-haired young man was completely captivated by her submissive attitude, the iron rings on her body, and the whip marks. Instead of pouncing on her as she expected, he took her hand and led her downstairs, ignoring the lewd smiles of the waiters, hailed a taxi, and took her back to his hotel room.

He didn't let her go until dark, during which time he frantically took her from both the front and the back, both times with ruthless, excessive brutality and intensity. His size and hardness were unusually high, and he was completely intoxicated by the freedom he had suddenly gained, a freedom that allowed him to enter a woman in two ways, and also allowed her to caress him in another way—the way he had recently seen that man command her to use (a way he had never dared to ask of anyone before).

The next day, when O arrived at Mr. Stephen's house at two o'clock in the afternoon, she found him to have aged, his face etched with worry.

“Eric is hopelessly in love with you, oh,” he told her. “He called me this morning, begging me to give you your freedom. He told me he wanted to marry you, he wanted to save you. You already know how I would treat you if you were mine. Oh, if you were mine, you wouldn’t have the right to refuse my orders; but you also know you’ve always had the freedom to choose not to belong to me. That’s what I told him, and he’s coming here at three o’clock.”

Oh couldn’t help but laugh. “Isn’t this a bit too late?” she said. “You two are both crazy. If Eric hadn’t been here this morning, what were you planning to have me do this afternoon? Maybe we’d go for a walk, what else? Well, let’s go for a walk then. Maybe you weren’t planning to call me this afternoon? If so, I’ll leave now…”

“No,” Mr. Stephen interrupted her, “I was planning to call you, but not for a walk, I think…”

“Go ahead.”

“Here, let me show you something simpler.”

He stood up and opened a door on the wall opposite the fireplace, identical to the one leading to his office.

She had always assumed this door led to an abandoned closet, but instead, she found herself in a small, newly painted bedroom with deep red silk hanging from the windows. A round platform occupied half the room, flanked by two pillars—a near-perfect replica of the stage in Themes Music Room.

“Cork on the walls and ceiling, isn’t it?” she guessed. “The doors are soundproof, and you even installed double windows?”

Mr. Stephen nodded in agreement.

“When was this renovated?” she asked.

“Since you came back.”

“Why?…”

“Why have I waited until today? Because I initially wanted to give you to another man, and now I'm punishing you for it. I've never punished you before, o.”

“I belong to you,” o said, “Punish me! When Eric comes…”

An hour later, the boy was brought to the room, and when he saw o bound in that strange way between two pillars, he turned pale, stammering as he fled.

o thought she would never see him again in her lifetime, but in Rossi she went to him again, at the end of September. At his request, she paid for him for three consecutive days. During those days, he used and abused her extremely brutally.

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