Mr. Stephen

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

O's residence, located on Rue Saint-Louis, was an old house facing south overlooking the Seine. The rooms were spacious but low-ceilinged, with sloping roofs. Two large rooms opened onto a balcony, which was conveniently shaded by the sloping eaves.

One room was O's, while the other, with a fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, served as a study and living room, and sometimes a bedroom. A large sofa faced the two large windows, and an antique table stood before the fireplace. When the small, green-decorated dining room facing the inner courtyard was insufficient due to a large number of guests, it was temporarily used as a dining table. The other room, also facing the inner courtyard, belonged to René, who often dressed and stored his clothes in this room. O shared a small, yellow washroom with him, and the kitchen, also painted yellow, was charmingly compact.

A cleaning lady came to clean the room once a day. The floor was paved with red bricks, the kind of antique hexagonal bricks often seen in old Parisian hotels, used on the second-floor staircases and landings connecting the staircases and corridors. Seeing these bricks again, I realized they were exactly the same. Her room was small, the pink and black printed curtains were tightly closed, a fire burned behind the metal bars, the blankets were folded, and the bed looked very neat.

"I bought you a nylon nightgown," René said, "you've never had one like this."

Sure enough, a snow-white, semi-transparent nylon nightgown was spread out on the side of the bed where she usually slept, as elegant as the clothing of an Egyptian statue. A thin leather belt was tied around the elastic waistband of the nightgown, the fabric of which was so soft that the shadow of her hips was visible through, making it appear a pale pink. Apart from the screen that matched the color of the window and the covers of the two small armchairs, the room was pure white: the walls, the lace tassels of the mahogany four-poster bed, and the bearskin rug on the floor. Wearing that white nightgown, she sat by the fireplace and began to listen to her lover speak.

He began by warning her not to think she was free now; she could only regain her freedom if she stopped loving him and left him immediately. But if she still loved him, there was no freedom to speak of. She listened silently, but her heart was filled with joy, for he was trying to prove to himself that she belonged to him.

How naive he was, still not realizing that his ownership of her needed no proof. Perhaps he did realize it, but still wanted to emphasize it, perhaps simply to derive some pleasure from it? As he spoke, she gazed at the firelight, avoiding his eyes.

He stood, pacing back and forth occasionally. Suddenly, he told her that he hoped she wouldn't kneel with her knees together or cross her arms while listening to him—she was sitting there with her arms wrapped around her knees. So she lifted the hem of her nightgown and knelt—or rather, knelt on her heels in a nun's or Japanese woman's posture—and waited for him to continue. Because her knees were spread apart, she felt the white bear fur gently but sharply pricking the middle of her half-open thighs.

He continued: her legs were not spread wide enough, and when the word "spread" and the phrase "spread your legs" came from her lover's mouth, they carried such unease and power that upon hearing them, she could not help but feel an inner reverence, a solemn obedience, as if God were speaking to her, not him. So she remained motionless, her hands palms up beside her knees, the hem of her nightgown spread out on the carpet.

His lover's desire for her was very simple: she must always be available. Regarding the unobstructed approach to her, it was not enough for him alone; it also required that her attire allow an experienced eye to immediately see that she was as readily available as expected. He said this had two meanings: first, she already knew, having been told on her first night at the castle: she must never close her knees or shut her lips. She probably thought it wouldn't be difficult (and she certainly did), but she needed to understand that maintaining this discipline would require a persistent effort, a constant reminder of the shared secret between her and him, and perhaps among several others, that kept her true place, even when she acted like an ordinary person among those unaware of their secret.

As for clothes, she could choose freely, and even design her own if necessary; he no longer required her to dress in the semi-nude style she'd worn in Rossi's car. Tomorrow she would stay home, organizing her wardrobe and drawers. She was to hand over all items like belts and underpants to him, including all bras, like the one that required cutting the straps to remove, any long garments covering her breasts, all blouses and long skirts without openings in the front, and any tight skirts that couldn't be easily lifted.

She would re-sew other styles of bras, blouses, and long skirts. Should she go to the tailor without anything under her blouse or sweater? Yes, she should be naked inside. If anyone noticed, she could explain it however she pleased, or simply not explain it at all—it was her problem, her own problem.

He had other instructions for her, but he preferred to say them a few days later and hoped she would be properly dressed before listening; she would find all the necessary funds in the small drawer of the table. After he finished speaking, she remained kneeling motionless, murmuring, "I love you."

He added some wood to the fireplace, lit the pink opal bedside lamp, and then told O to wait for him in bed; he would sleep with her that night. When he returned, O reached out to turn off the light; she used her left hand, so the last thing she saw before darkness engulfed the room was the dim gleam of the iron ring on her finger. She lay on her side, her lover gently calling her name, while holding her lower abdomen and pulling her into his arms.

The next morning, René went out, saying he would not return until evening to take her to a restaurant. She had just eaten lunch alone in that green dining room, still wearing her bathrobe, when the phone rang. The phone was under the bedside lamp in the bedroom, and she answered it sitting on the floor. It was René; he wanted to know if the cleaning lady had left. She had left, served lunch, and wouldn't return until tomorrow morning.

"Have you started getting dressed?" René asked.

"I've just started," she replied. "I got up late, and it was already noon by the time I finished washing up."

"Are you dressed?"

"No, I'm only wearing my nightgown and bathrobe.

" "Put the phone down and take off your nightgown and bathrobe."

She obediently did as he said. Just then, the phone suddenly slipped off the bed. Startled, she placed it on the white carpet, thinking the call had ended, but it hadn't.

"Are you completely naked?" René continued.

"Yes," she said. "Where did you call from?"

He ignored her question and continued, "Are you still wearing your ring?"

She was wearing her ring.

He instructed her to remain naked until he returned home, and then, still completely naked, she packed the suitcase of clothes she was about to throw away before hanging up.

It was past one o'clock; the weather was sunny and pleasant. A small patch of sunlight shone on the carpet, illuminating the white pajamas and thick cotton bathrobe she had just removed and which had slipped onto the floor, giving them a pale green, like fresh lemon peel. She picked them up and took them to the bathroom to hang in the closet.

Suddenly, she saw her reflection in the mirror. It was a mirror embedded in the door, with another mirror on the wall and another on the other door, forming a large three-sided mirror: she was wearing only a pair of green leather slippers, the same color as her bathrobe, just a little darker than the slippers she had worn in Rossi—and the ring; she no longer wore the necklace and bracelet.

She was alone; she was her only audience, yet she had never imagined she would be so utterly gripped by a fear of loneliness as she was now. She had become a more complete slave, and willingly so.

As she bent down to open the drawer, she saw her breasts tremble slightly. It took her almost two hours to sort through the clothes that needed to be packed separately and place them on the bed. There weren't many options for underwear, so she piled them into a small heap at the head of the bed. The same went for bras; she didn't keep a single one, since they all had side hooks at the back, and she thought she could alter them to open in the front, right below her cleavage. She didn't need to keep the belts and garters either, but she couldn't decide whether to keep the pink brocade lingerie with black lace, which was remarkably similar to the corset she wore in Rossi; she placed it separately on the dressing table, leaving the decision to René. The sweaters also needed his approval; they were all pullovers with tight necklines, unable to open from the front, but could be pushed up at the waist to expose the breasts. All the petticoats were placed on that small heap.

In the drawer was a black silk petticoat with pretty ruffles, specially made to be worn under a thin black wool skirt to make it less sheer. She needed some petticoats, the short, light-colored kind.

She realized she also had to give up her suits and those button-down skirts and have some petticoats made that opened in the front, just like the skirts. Alterating underwear and dresses was easy to explain, but how could she tell her tailor about altering petticoats? Perhaps she should say she wasn't afraid of the cold and therefore preferred open fronts, but in reality, she was quite sensitive to cold air. It suddenly occurred to her how she could possibly withstand the winter chill dressed so lightly.

She finally finished packing, and all that remained in the closet were the button-down shirt, the black pleated skirt, the coat, and the suit she had worn home from Rossi. Then she went to prepare tea. She turned on the tea stove in the kitchen. The cleaning lady had forgotten to fill the basket with firewood. Knowing her lover liked to see her sitting by the fireplace in the living room when he came home in the evening, she filled the basket to the brim from the woodpile in the hallway closet, carried it to the fireplace in the living room, and lit the fire. She sat curled up in a large armchair, waiting for him to come home, the tea tray beside her. Unlike before, she obeyed his command: waiting for him completely naked.

The first trouble she encountered was at her workplace—or perhaps "trouble" was an exaggeration; more accurately, it was the astonishment of her colleagues. She worked in the fashion department of a photography company, taking photos of people in the studio. The models, chosen by the designers, often had to pose for hours there; they were all the most beautiful and sexy girls.

They were all astonished that she had gone over her vacation and didn't return to work until late autumn, the busiest season in the fashion industry because new samples were about to be launched. But that wasn't the most surprising thing. What astonished them most was the magnitude of her change. At first glance, it was difficult to pinpoint exactly what had changed, yet they could sense it. The more they observed her, the more certain they became: she stood straighter than before, her gait was more upright, her eyes were clearer, but most striking was her graceful posture when resting, and the elegance and refinement she exuded at all times.

Her clothing had always been conservative, always in the rather masculine attire favored by girls in that line of work. Because those girls—her clients—were always attentive to their appearance, both professionally and personally, they quickly noticed the subtle changes that were imperceptible to the average eye: the outline of her breasts was subtly revealed when she wore a fitted sweater—René ultimately agreed to keep those sweaters—the folds in her skirt when she turned were too exaggerated, and since she always wore the same outfit, it was almost like she was wearing a uniform.

"Too girlish," one model said to her one day. She was a girl with many green eyes, high Slavic cheekbones, and olive skin. “And you shouldn’t wear stockings,” she added. “They’ll ruin your legs.”

This comment was prompted by O herself, who was hurrying past her, lost in thought, and sat down in a large armchair diagonally opposite her. As she sat down, she lifted her skirt, and the tall girl caught a glimpse of her bare thighs above the stockings, which were rolled up only to her knees.

O noticed her smile, a sly one that made her wonder what the girl was thinking; perhaps she understood something. She adjusted her stockings, pulling them up one by one and tightening them—not the common kind secured with garters, so they were difficult to secure.

As she tied them, O answered Jacqueline, “This is practical.”

“Practical for what?” Jacqueline wanted to know.

“I don’t like garters,” O replied.

But Jacqueline wasn’t listening; she was staring intently at the iron ring. Unlike any of her previous photographs, perhaps because she had never seen a model like this before, she had never before created such rich meaning and emotion from a face and a body. In truth, O's entire goal was simply to make the silks, furs, and laces appear even more beautiful through the fleeting beauty of the girl's mischievous image, whether it was the simplest shirt or the most luxurious white mink.

Jacqueline had short, thick, slightly curly blonde hair. When she wore mink, she always tilted her head slightly to her left shoulder, hiding her face in the raised collar. O once captured this expression perfectly; she smiled gently, her hair swaying lightly in the breeze, her smooth, strong cheekbones pressed against the gray mink, the soft gray like ashes freshly fallen from a burning wood. Her

lips were slightly parted, her eyes half-open, and in the dim, liquid sheen, she looked like a girl in a state of blissful ecstasy. She was pale, too pale; O developed the photograph with extremely low contrast.

She also took another masterpiece of a photograph of Jacqueline, which is even more captivating: it is a backlit photo that clearly outlines her bare shoulders, her elegant head shape and face. Her entire face is covered by a black mesh veil with two feather ornaments inserted on it, like a wisp of mist floating above her head. She wears a wide, thick brocade robe, the bright red of which makes her look like a medieval bride. The robe trails down to her ankles, shimmering at her hips, and is tightly cinched at the waist, with a bustier highlighting her bust.

The designer called this garment a festive robe, never before worn by anyone. The stilettos were made of bright red velvet. When Jacqueline appeared before O wearing this robe and heels, along with the veil that could be imagined as a mask, O constantly reshaped the model in her imagination, perfecting her image: a little here, a little there—tighten the waist a bit more, lift the breasts a bit more—it was practically identical to Rosie's dress, just like the one Jenny wore, the same smooth, heavy, loosely draped silk, allowing it to be lifted in a single movement at any moment…

Who could argue with that?

Jacqueline lifted her skirt in that very way as she walked off the stage, performing for fifteen minutes with the same rustling sound, the same cracking of dry leaves. Did no one wear such robes anymore?

But they did. Jacqueline wore a gold choker and gold bracelets. O couldn't help but think: she would be even more beautiful with a leather choker and bracelets.

Then O did something she had never done before: she followed Jacqueline into the large dressing room next to the photography studio, where the models were getting dressed, putting on makeup, and storing their clothes and belongings. O stood there, leaning against the doorframe, her gaze fixed on Jacqueline's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Jacqueline was sitting there, not yet having taken off her robe. The mirror was enormous—it took up an entire back wall, and the dressing table was just a black glass panel—so O could see Jacqueline and herself in the mirror, as well as the costume designer, who was adjusting feathers and veils.

Jacqueline removed the necklace herself, raising her bare arm. A slight sheen of sweat glistened beneath her arm; her armpit hair had been shaved (why? O wondered curiously, what a waste to shave it off, she was so perfect). O could smell the pungent, elegant, somewhat herbal fragrance, and she wondered what kind of perfume Jacqueline should wear—what kind they would put on her. Then Jacqueline removed her bracelet, placing it on the glass with a mesmerizing clang, like the clatter of chains. Her hair was so beautiful, her skin a shade darker than her hair, the color of fine sand left after the waves recede. In the photograph, the red velvet would turn black in the wash.

Just then, Jacqueline lifted her thick, rarely-made-up eyelashes, and in the mirror, O's gaze met hers. She stared directly at her, unable to look away. Her face flushed slightly, but that was all.

“I’m sorry,” Jacqueline said, “I have to take my clothes off.”

“I’m sorry,” O murmured, closing the door.

The next day, she took the sample photos she had taken the day before home, unsure of her own feelings—whether she wanted to show them to her lover or not. That day, he planned to take her out to dinner. While getting her makeup done, she placed the photos on the dressing table, admiring them and gently stroking the smiling eyebrows with her fingers. But when she heard the sound of the lock opening, she put the photos back in the drawer.

For two whole weeks, O had been fully prepared to be used, but she still couldn’t get used to it. Until one evening, when she returned home from the photography studio, she found a note from her lover asking her to prepare for dinner with him and one of his friends at eight o’clock that evening, and that a car would pick her up and the driver would come upstairs to knock on the door. The note also included a note instructing her to wear the leather jacket, that all her clothes be black (the word "all" was emphasized), and that she should apply makeup and perfume as meticulously as she had with Rossi.

It was six o'clock, mid-December, and quite chilly—a black outfit for the dinner party meant black stockings, black gloves, a flared skirt, and either the thick sweater adorned with glittering stars or her black silk jacket. She decided on the black silk jacket: it had a lining with large stitches, fitting snugly against her body; the buttons ran from her neck to her waist, like the tight-fitting tunics favored by sixteenth-century men; it perfectly outlined her breasts, since her bra was tucked inside; it was edged with the same silk thread, and the hem slit at the hips. The only embellishment was a row of large, gleaming gold hooks, like those on children's snowshoes, which always jingled as she fastened or unfastened their wide, flat rings.

She picked out the clothes she wanted to wear and placed them on the bed, her black high-heeled shoes at the foot of the bed. Realizing she was alone and carefree in her own bathroom, meticulously applying makeup and perfume, she had a strange feeling. She was doing this after showering, just like she often did in Rossi, but her own cosmetics were different from those she used in Rossi. In the dressing table drawer, she found some blush. At first, she felt she had applied too much and tried to wash some off with alcohol—very difficult to remove—then she started again: she applied peony pink to her nipples.

She tried to apply some to her pubic area, but without success, at least leaving no blush marks there. Finally, among the lipsticks in the drawer, she found the kind that wouldn't smudge when kissing. She didn't like these lipsticks because they were too dry and difficult to wash off. This one will do; it's not bad.

She combed her hair, washed her face again, and finally applied perfume—a spray perfume René had given her, the name of which she still didn't know. It smelled of dry wood and swampy plants, a slightly pungent, wild scent. The perfume on her skin faded quickly, running down her armpits and pubic area, leaving small smudges.

Rossi had learned how to kill time: she applied perfume three times, waiting for each new application to dry before applying it again. She put on her stockings first, then her heels, then her petticoat and long skirt, then her jacket. She put on gloves, picked up her purse containing her powder compact, lipstick, comb, keys, and ten francs. With her gloved hands, she took her leather coat from the closet, glancing at the clock on the bedside table: a quarter to eight. She sat languidly on the edge of the bed, staring at the clock, waiting motionless for the doorbell. Finally, she heard the doorbell ring and stood up to leave. Just before turning off the light, she saw her own graceful and elegant expression in the mirror.

The car stopped in front of a small Italian restaurant. When she pushed open the door, the first person she saw was René, sitting by the bar. He smiled tenderly at her, took her hand, and then turned to a gray-haired man with an athletic physique. He introduced O to Mr. Stephen in English.

They invited O to sit on a stool between them. As she was about to sit down, René whispered to her, "Be careful not to mess up your clothes." He helped her move the hem of her dress from under her legs and helped her sit properly on the stool. She felt the cool leather against her skin, the circular metal edge against her buttocks, so she could only sit halfway at first, afraid that if she sat down fully, she would have to bring her legs together. Her skirt clung to her sides, and she rested her right heel on the stool's support, her left toes touching the floor.

The Englishman bowed silently, then stared intently at her. She noticed him examining her knees, her hands, and finally her lips. His expression was so calm, so meticulous, so confident that his gaze made her feel like a tool being weighed and tested, and she knew all too well that she was such a tool.

Perhaps compelled by his gaze, she removed her gloves: she knew he would speak once her hands were exposed—because she had unusual hands, hands more like a boy's than a girl's, and on the middle finger of her left hand wore the iron ring with three golden spirals. But she was wrong; he said nothing, only smiled slightly, indicating he had seen the ring.

René ordered a martini, and Mr. Stephen ordered a whiskey. He sipped his whiskey, waiting for René to finish his second martini and for O to finish the grape juice René had ordered for her. Then he said that if O had no objections, they could go downstairs for dinner; the private rooms there were smaller and less noisy than the ones on this floor of the hotel. This floor was actually a large bar.

“Of course,” O said, already picking up her purse and gloves from the bar.

Mr. Stephen helped her to her feet and extended his right hand to her, which she placed in his. He finally spoke directly to her, saying that she had hands made for wearing “iron,” and that “iron” seemed particularly suited to her. Because he said this in English, the meaning was somewhat ambiguous, making it unclear whether he meant the metal itself or the chains.

The private rooms downstairs were predominantly white, simply furnished but clean and pleasant. There were only four tables in the room, one of which had already finished its meal and was preparing to leave. The walls of the private room were decorated with murals of cooking techniques and Italian tourist maps in a soft, ice cream-like hue—vanilla, raspberry, and pistachio ice cream. This hue reminded O that if she ordered ice cream for dessert, she wanted the kind topped with lots of almonds and cream. She felt relaxed and happy at that moment; René's knees were close to hers under the table, and she knew that whatever he said was only directed at her: he was staring intently at her lips.

They allowed her to order ice cream but not coffee. Mr. Stephen invited O and René to his house for coffee. They ate very little, and O noticed that they were both very careful not to overindulge in food and alcohol, and that they barely let her drink any: the three of them only had half a liter of Chianti. Furthermore, they ate quickly: it wasn't even nine o'clock when they finished.

“I sent the driver back,” said Mr. Stephen. “Are you driving, René? I think the easiest way is to go straight to my house.”

Beyond the Rue du Omar, one could see the bare shadows of the trees behind the Royal Palace and the dry, gleaming Place de la Concorde, its sky heavy with dark clouds, but no snow yet. Just then, O heard a click, followed by the feeling of warm air rising from beneath her legs: Mr. Stephen had turned on the car heater.

René drove along the right bank of the Seine, then turned onto the left bank at Port Royal: between the stone railings on both banks, the water looked frozen and black, reminding O of the dark color of iron ore. A close friend of hers, when she was fifteen, had worn an iron ore ring with a small cluster of diamonds. Her friend was thirty then, but O had fallen in love with her.

O longed for a necklace made of black stone, without diamonds, simple in design, perhaps just a choker around her neck. But would she rather exchange that black stone necklace, that black stone from her dream, for the necklace they had given her? —No, actually, that necklace wasn't a gift from them. In O's fantasy world, a scene from her past life resurfaced, the ugly room Marianne had taken her to, right next to Rue Tebig. O remembered how Marianne had untied her two long, student-style braids—her braids, not Marianne's—how she had undressed her, placed her on a large iron bed, and how beautiful Marianne looked when she was being caressed. She discovered that human eyes could indeed be as bright as stars—her eyes looked like twinkling blue stars.

René stopped the car. O didn't recognize the alley, only knowing it was a side street connecting Rue de la University and Rue de la Lily.

Mr. Stephen's house was at the far end of the courtyard, occupying one side of the old-fashioned private residence. All the rooms were arranged in a row, one inside the other, the largest and most comfortable being the innermost, furnished with dark English mahogany upholstered in pale yellow and grey canopies.

"I don't expect you to tend the fireplace," Mr. Stephen said to O, "but this sofa is for you. Please sit down; René will make coffee. I would be very grateful if I had the honor of hearing what I must say next."

The large, light-colored damask sofa was placed to the right of the fireplace, facing the window overlooking the garden and courtyard. O took off her leather coat and placed it on the back of the sofa. When she turned around, she found her lover and host, Mr. Stephen, standing there, waiting for her to formally accept his invitation. She placed her purse beside her coat and then unbuttoned her gloves.

When would she ever learn to lift her skirt with a subtle, unnoticed movement, so as not to attract attention, to forget that she was naked beneath her coat, to forget her subservient position? No, she simply couldn't do it. Finally, she gave up this futile effort.

Mr. Stephen was fiddling with the wood in the fireplace when René suddenly went behind the sofa, grabbed O's throat and hair with both hands, pressed her head against the back of the sofa, and kissed her lips. The kiss was deep and long; she held her breath, feeling something melting and burning inside her.

He released her for a moment, just to tell her he loved her, and then gave her another long kiss. O's hands unconsciously made a gesture of passion, palms up, quietly resting on her black dress, which bloomed like flower petals. At that moment, Mr. Stephen came over. When she finally ended her passionate kiss with René and opened her eyes, she saw the Englishman's grey and fearless gaze.

O was stunned and utterly embarrassed, still basking in her joy. Nevertheless, she immediately realized he adored her and desperately desired her. Who could resist her half-open, moist, full lips, her neck so white against the black collar of her valet jacket, and her large, bright, determined, and honest eyes?

However, Mr. Stephen did nothing more than gently run his fingers across her eyebrows and then to her lips. He walked to the other side of the fireplace, sat down facing O, where René was already seated in an armchair. Mr. Stephen began to speak.

“I suppose René has never told you about his family,” he said, “but you may know that his mother was married to an Englishman before she married his father. This Englishman had a son, and I am that son. She raised me until she left my father, so René and I are not relatives, but in a sense, brothers. René loves you, I have no doubt about that. Even if he doesn’t tell me, I will know. Even if he doesn’t do anything, just look at the way he looks at you, and I will understand everything.”

“I also know that you are one of those girls who stayed in Rossi, and I think you will go back there.

In principle, the ring you wear has given me the right to do anything I want to you, just like all men who know its meaning have. But that’s not enough. We expect much more from you. I say ‘we’ because, as you can see, René hasn’t said anything: he prefers me to speak for both of us.”

“If we are brothers, then I am the elder, ten years his senior. Our relationship is one of absolute freedom, and we have always had this agreement: everything that belongs to me also belongs to him; everything that belongs to him also belongs to me. Do you agree to join us?”

“I implore you to do so, and I ask you to swear an oath to it, for mere passive obedience is far from sufficient, and I know we can trust you. Until you give me your answer, you will still have only one master, a far more terrifying master, just as you have always had. I assure you, I am a far more terrifying master than all those men to whom you have offered yourselves in Rossi, for I will be present every day. Moreover, I particularly cherish certain ways and rituals…” (He spoke this last short sentence in English.)

Mr. Stephen’s calm and confident voice resonated in the absolute silence, even the crackling of the firewood burning in the fireplace was quiet. She froze on the sofa, like a butterfly pinned to a steel needle. The needles of words and gazes pierced her body, pressing her naked form heavily against the warm silk netting, rendering her immobile.

She was no longer the master of her breasts, arms, and neck. She knew perfectly well that his manners and rituals clearly referred to the possession of her long, slender legs—legs that had unknowingly parted.

Two men sat there, facing her. René was smoking, but before lighting his own, he lit one of the lamps shaded with black lampshades, which absorbed the smoke, releasing a cool night air into the cleared atmosphere of the burning firewood.

“Will you give me an answer now, or would you like to know more?” Mr. Stephen asked.

“If you agree,” René said, “I will explain Mr. Stephen’s preferences to you separately.”

“It’s a request,” Mr. Stephen corrected him.

She was thinking that the hardest thing wasn't expressing her agreement; she knew perfectly well that neither of them had even for a second doubted that she would refuse, and she herself had never even considered that she would refuse. The hardest thing was saying those words. Her lips were burning, her mouth was dry, not a drop of saliva remained, and the dual torment of fear and desire made her throat tight. Her hands, which had just regained feeling, were cold and clammy.

She longed to close her eyes, but she couldn't. Two pairs of eyes were fixed on hers, a gaze she couldn't avoid and didn't intend to. They pulled her back to those things she had long forgotten, perhaps even forgotten, in her mind; they pulled her back to what had happened in Rossie, because since she returned home, René had only given her caresses.

The ring, the symbol that she belonged to anyone who knew the secret, hadn't changed her life at all: perhaps because she hadn't met anyone who knew the secret; perhaps because those who did know it remained silent. The only person who had ever made her doubt was Jacqueline (but if Jacqueline had been to Rossie, why wasn't she wearing the ring? Besides, even if Jacqueline knew the secret, what could she do about it?).

To answer, she should at least be able to move, but at this moment she couldn't move at all according to her own free will—a single command from them could make her stand up immediately. But this time, what they demanded from her wasn't blind obedience, nor silent compliance; they demanded her prior acknowledgment of these commands, her verbal declaration of enslavement, her handing herself over to them. This was the promise they hoped to get from her. She remembered that she had never said anything to René except "I love you" and "I am yours." It seemed that what they wanted her to say and agree to today was to specifically state what she had so far only tacitly agreed to.

Finally, she straightened herself, as if the words she was about to utter would suffocate her. She unhooked the top hook of her corset until her cleavage was exposed, and then she struggled to her feet, her hands and knees trembling.

“I am yours,” she finally said to René, “I will do whatever you ask.”

“No,” he interrupted her, “I am ours. Repeat my words: I belong to both of you, and I will do whatever you ask.”

Mr. Stephen’s sharp gray eyes stared unblinkingly at her, and René stared unblinkingly at her as well. Feeling lost in René’s gaze, she simply repeated word for word what he had made her say, just as she had in French class, changing the entire sentence to the first person.

“You grant Mr. Stephen and me the following rights… These rights include: the right to dispose of her body wherever and in whatever manner; the right to bind her in chains; the right to whip her like a slave or prisoner for the slightest offense or merely for their pleasure; the right to ignore her pleas and cries when she cries out.”

“I believe,” René said, “that Mr. Stephen is willing to let me briefly explain his request at this moment, and that you and I both agree to this.”

Listening intently to her lover’s words, all the things he had said to her in Rossie came back to her: they were almost identical. But she listened, feeling that it wasn’t real, like a dream, as if she weren’t herself, or perhaps she didn’t exist at all. It was a dream, or rather, a nightmare—the prison-like facilities, the flowing evening gowns, the masked men: all of this had taken her away from her own life, to a realm of illusion from which she didn’t know how long it would last.

There, in Rossie, she felt that feeling you only have at night, lost in the kind of dream you’ve experienced, and now that dream has begun again: it truly existed, and it truly will end; you hope it ends because you’re not sure you can endure it; yet you also hope it continues, and then you’ll know how it ends. Well, here it is, the ending appears in the place she least expected (or in the place she no longer had any hope for), in the way she least expected (assuming she tells herself that this is truly the final ending, that there is no other ending hidden behind it, and no ending after this one).

Now this ending awakens her from her memories, bringing her back to reality. Moreover, the reality of this closed little circle, this private world, suddenly threatens to destroy everything in her daily life, both external and internal. This reality is no longer satisfied with signs and symbols—the bare buttocks, the open bra, the iron ring—but demands fulfillment.

One thing is certain: René never personally whipped her, and the only difference between their relationship before he took her to Rossi and after he brought her home is that now he uses her buttocks and mouth in the same way he used her womb (which he still continues to use). She could never be sure if, of the routine floggings she received at Rossi's hands, he had actually carried them out (if there was any possibility, it was because sometimes her eyes were blindfolded, or sometimes the man who flogged her wore a mask), but she deeply doubted it.

She was certain he derived immense pleasure from her physical bondage and utter subjugation, from her hopeless struggles, from her weeping, because she believed he could never do it himself, for he would never want to be distracted by it. He seemed to have agreed on her behalf—he reclined comfortably in his deep armchair, legs crossed, and said to her in an extremely refined and gentle tone: that he felt great pleasure in surrendering himself to Mr. Stephen's will and desire, or rather, in her surrendering herself to Mr. Stephen's will and desire.

Whenever Mr. Stephen wanted to invite her to his home for an evening or even just an hour; whether he wanted her to accompany him somewhere outside Paris, or even within Paris; whether he invited her to a restaurant or a show, he would call her directly and send a car to pick her up—unless René himself came. Today, at this moment, it was her turn to speak.

Did she agree to the above agreement? But she couldn't utter a single word. The answer they were asking of her now meant that she would agree to completely surrender herself, that she would agree in advance to everything that might happen in the future. She was quite certain that she was willing to say "yes" to everything that was about to happen, but her body would say "no," at least regarding enduring the whipping. As for the other aspects of the matter, to be honest, she had to admit that Mr. Stephen's gaze stirred within her a feeling of both anxiety and excitement, a trembling nervousness caused by temptation.

She trembled like a leaf in the wind, and perhaps because of this trembling, she knew she was even more impatient than Mr. Stephen with anticipation for that moment, for him to place his hand, or perhaps his lips, on her. Whether she could hasten that moment depended entirely on herself.

No matter how courageous she had been, how surging her desires, as she prepared to give her final answer, she suddenly felt all her strength drain away. She slid from the sofa to the floor, her skirt billowing out around her like a balloon. In the silence, Mr. Stephen's hollow voice rang out. He commented: "She's afraid." His words

weren't directed at her, but at René. There was a sense that Mr. Stephen was restraining himself from taking any action against her, and that he was beginning to regret his self-repression. Yet, she ultimately avoided his gaze, her eyes fixed on René, for she feared he would see the look in her eyes when she looked at Mr. Stephen and interpret it as a betrayal. However, this was by no means a betrayal, because if they allowed her to choose between her desire to be subordinate to Mr. Stephen and her desire to be subordinate to René, she would say without hesitation that the only reason she succumbed to the former was because René allowed her to do so, and to some extent, she felt that he was ordering her to do so. Nevertheless, a trace of hesitation remained in her heart; she didn't know if René would be angry that she had accepted Mr. Stephen so quickly and easily.

Even the slightest gesture from him could have immediately dispelled her hesitation, but he made no move, only demanding an answer again—this was the third time. So she mumbled,

“Whatever you two decide, I agree,” and then, lowering her eyes to her hands spread between her knees, she stammered, “I want to know, will I be whipped?”

A long silence followed, during which she regretted asking the question twenty times. Then she heard Mr. Stephen say firmly,

“It will be frequent and constant.”

Then she heard the sound of striking a match and clinking glasses: the two men had probably each poured themselves another glass of whiskey. René accepted her decision without a word.

“Even if I agree now,” she said, “even if I agree now, I still can’t bear it.”

“All we ask of you is to accept it; if you cry or groan, according to our prior agreement, it will be of no use,” Mr. Stephen continued.

“Oh, please, have pity on me, don’t do this!” said Mr. Stephen, standing up. René also stood up, bending down and grasping her shoulders.

“Give us your answer,” he said. “Do you agree?”

Finally, she agreed. René gently helped her up from the floor, then sat down on the large sofa, making her kneel beside him, facing it, her outstretched arms, upper body, and head leaning against the sofa. She closed her eyes, and a scene she had seen years ago flashed through her mind: a strange painting of a woman kneeling before an armchair, in the exact same posture as she was now. The floor was made of square tiles, and in one corner of the room, a dog was playing with a child. The woman’s skirt was lifted, and not far behind her, a standing man was raising a whip, ready to lash her. They were all dressed in sixteenth-century clothing. The title of that painting had once disgusted her: Family Discipline.

René gripped her wrists like an iron clamp with one hand, while simultaneously lifting her skirt high with the other, so she could feel the fine cotton lining rubbing against her neck. He gently stroked her buttocks, seemingly trying to attract Mr. Stephen's attention, to let him appreciate the two small indentations that enhanced her beauty, and the softness between her legs. Then he pressed his hand against her waist, making her buttocks more prominent, and ordered her to spread her knees wider.

She obeyed without a word. René's boasting about her body, Mr. Stephen's reaction to it, and the rudeness of the men's language suddenly overwhelmed her with a strong and unexpected sense of shame, so much so that the little hope she had had of being possessed by Mr. Stephen vanished. She began to long for whipping as a form of release, as if only pain and cries could justify her actions.

However, Mr. Stephen's hand merely opened her hips, then entered through her anus, withdrew, and entered again, caressing her until she could no longer suppress her moans, moans signifying her conquest, destruction, and utter humiliation.

"I'm leaving you with Mr. Stephen," René said, "just stay in this position, and he'll release you when he deems it appropriate."

Countless times in Rossi, she had remained in this position, kneeling, surrendering herself to one or all men, but there her hands were always bound together with bracelets; then she was a blissful prisoner, everything imposed upon her, nothing done with her consent. But here, it was her own free will that kept her in this semi-naked state; to make her stand up, or to cover her, only a simple gesture would suffice. Her promise bound her like a leather collar and chains—was it merely an ordinary promise?

Whatever humiliation she suffered, or rather, precisely because of that humiliation, because of her complete submission, because of the respect she gained through that submissive openness, didn't it contain an element of pleasure?

When René left, Mr. Stephen escorted him to the front door, and there she waited, all alone and motionless, a wait that instilled in her an unprecedented sense of loneliness and a feeling of being sold. The greyish-yellow silk of the sofa felt smooth against her face; through her nylon stockings, she could feel the thick wool carpet beneath her knees; she could feel the heat emanating from the fireplace on the side of her left leg; the three logs Mr. Stephen had added were crackling and burning; on the dresser, an old clock ticked silently; otherwise, all was quiet. She

listened intently, thinking: how absurd her posture was in such a civilized and elegant room. Through the blinds, she could hear the languid noises of Paris after midnight. Would she recognize the spot on the sofa cushion where she had pressed her cheek in the next day, the next morning? Would she come to this living room during the day again? Would she be treated the same way?

Clearly, Mr. Stephen wasn't in a hurry to return, and she, who had so obediently waited for strangers to come and enjoy their pleasures countless times in Rossi, felt a lump in her throat at the thought that he would touch her body in a minute or ten. But things didn't go as she expected.

She heard him open the door and enter the room. With his back to the fire, he stood there observing her for a while, then, in a near-whisper, told her to stand up and sit back down on the sofa. This was so unexpected; she felt embarrassed, but did as he said.

He politely offered her a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, both of which she refused. Then she noticed that he was wearing a yukata, a very old-fashioned gray coarse cloth yukata—the same color as his gray hair. His hands were thin and dry, with short, flat nails that looked unusually pale. When their eyes met, O blushed: these were indeed the hands that had held her body, the hands she now both feared and longed for. But he didn't move closer.

"I'd like you to take off all your clothes," he said, "but just unbutton your jacket first, you don't have to stand up."

O unhooked the huge gold hooks and took off the tight-fitting jacket, then placed it at the other end of the sofa, where her coat, gloves, and purse were already laid out.

"Now touch your own nipples, gently," Mr. Stephen continued, "you must use a darker shade of rouge, these are too light."

Leaning back against the sofa, O stroked her nipples with her fingers, feeling them quickly harden and stand erect, then covered them with her palms.

"Oh, no!" Mr. Stephen said.

She withdrew her hands and leaned back against the sofa: her breasts seemed heavy against her slender frame, their curves elegant. Her neck rested on the sofa back, her hands on her thighs. Why didn't Mr. Stephen bend down and press his lips to hers? Why didn't his hands reach for her nipples, which he watched harden? Though she sat there motionless, she could feel her nipples trembling with her breath.

He came over and sat on the arm of the sofa, but didn't touch her; he was smoking. Suddenly, his hand moved—oh, she would never know if it was intentional—and some still-hot ash fell between her breasts. She had a feeling: he wanted to humiliate her, with his contempt, with his silence, with his aloofness. Yet just a short while ago, he had desired her; he still desired her now, and she could tell from the tightness of her soft bathrobe. So let him have her, let him hurt her as much as he wanted!

She hated herself for her desires and loathed Mr. Stephen for the self-control he displayed. She wanted him to love her—yes, that was the truth: she truly wanted to see him enraged by his own impulses—the impulse to touch her lips, to penetrate her body, and, if necessary, even to ravage her—rather than see his calm and self-centered demeanor.

In Rossie, she cared nothing for the feelings of those who used her body: they were merely tools for her lover to derive pleasure from her, and everything she did made her the kind of person he wanted her to be—smooth, easygoing, and gentle as stone. Their hands were his hands, their commands were his commands.

But here, everything was different. René had given her to Mr. Stephen, clearly intending to share her with him, not to gain anything more from her, nor to derive pleasure from handing her over to someone else, but to share what he loved most with Mr. Stephen.

Undoubtedly, this was like in the past, when they were both young, sharing a trip, a yacht, or a horse. At this moment, this sharing meant far more to René and Mr. Stephen than to him and her. What they would seek from her in the future would be merely the imprints the other had left on her, the imprints of the other's actions.

Just moments before, when she knelt half-naked before René, and Mr. Stephen parted her legs with his hands, René had carefully explained to him why O's buttocks were so accessible, why he felt so pleased with this preparation: for he had suddenly realized that Mr. Stephen would be able to use this most beloved orifice continuously, as he pleased. He had even said that if Mr. Stephen wished, he would give it to him alone.

"Why not? I'd gladly oblige," said Mr. Stephen, but he added that despite these pleasant agreements, he might still borrow O for a while.

"O is yours," René replied, "O would be happy to be borrowed by you." Saying this, he leaned down and kissed her hand.

The thought that René could partially abandon her was a devastating blow to O. She believed it meant her lover cared more for Mr. Stephen than for her. Although he repeatedly told her that he loved her for who she was, the object he had made of her, for her absolute openness to him, for his absolute freedom to dispose of her—the freedom to treat her as he would a piece of furniture, the freedom to both retain and give away something of his own—she found herself not entirely convinced.

She also saw another sign of René's heartfelt admiration, or rather, respect, for Monsieur Stephen: René had once so eagerly anticipated seeing her body pinned beneath someone or whipped; whenever he saw her groaning or crying mouth, her tear-filled eyes closed in pain, his gaze was always so tender, always burning with undiminished gratitude; and now, he had left her, after showing Monsieur Stephen everything about her, like opening a horse's mouth to prove its youth, after proving to Monsieur Stephen that she was beautiful enough, or more precisely, after proving to him that she was suitable enough for his needs, and only after being accepted by him, before leaving her with peace of mind.

No matter how offensive and insulting his actions were, he remained deeply devoted to René. She considered herself lucky, for she held enough importance in his heart that he derives pleasure from offending her, like a devout believer thanks God for making them humble.

But in Mr. Stephen, she found a will as firm as ice and iron, unmoved by desire. No matter how charming or submissive she was, on the scales of this will, she remained utterly worthless.

At least so far, otherwise why would she feel such terror? To her, neither the whip on Rosie's servant's belt nor the chains that bound her seemed more terrifying than the calm with which Mr. Stephen gazed at her breasts but restrained himself from touching them. Under that focused, calm, and profound gaze, her slender shoulders and thin frame appeared exceptionally fragile. She trembled involuntarily, feeling as if she were suffocating.

She knew perfectly well that trying to soften Mr. Stephen with this vulnerability was futile; the reality was quite the opposite: her tenderness and submission could bring both caresses and harm; both lips and nails. She remembered Mr. Stephen gently rubbing her nipple with the tip of his right middle finger, which held a cigarette, and the nipple obediently hardened. For Mr. Stephen, this was a game, or merely the prelude to a game, nothing more. Or, it could be seen as a test, the way people test whether a machine is functioning properly. She was absolutely certain of this. Mr. Stephen remained seated

on the armrest of his chair, letting her take off her skirt. Her damp fingers made the buttons slippery, and she had to try twice to undo the black gauze petticoat underneath.

After she was completely naked, her high heels and black nylon stockings rolled up to her knees accentuated the elegant lines of her calves and the snow-white skin of her thighs. At this moment, Mr. Stephen stood up, grabbed her waist with one hand, and pushed her towards the sofa. He made her kneel on the floor, her back against the sofa, pressing her shoulders instead of her waist tightly against it. Then he spread her legs slightly, her hands on her ankles, her abdomen exposed, above her protruding breasts, her throat arched back.

She dared not look at Mr. Stephen's face, but she saw his hands unbuckling his belt. As he straddled her, she remained kneeling. He grabbed the back of her neck and thrust into her mouth, seemingly seeking not the caress of her lips, but the depths of her throat.

He worked for a long time, and O felt that suffocating flesh swelling and hardening, its slow, repetitive pounding bringing tears to her eyes. To penetrate her more thoroughly, Mr. Stephen knelt on the sofa, his knees pressed against her cheeks, for a moment his buttocks resting on her breasts.

She felt her womb burning, that useless, cursed womb burning within her body. Although Mr. Stephen seemed quite pleased and lingered in her body for a long time, he did not allow himself to reach orgasm. Instead, he silently withdrew from her, stood up again, and did not close his bathrobe.

“You’re so slutty, oh,” he said to her. “You love René, but you’re so wanton. Doesn’t René see that you crave and desire all the men who want you? Doesn’t he understand that sending you to Rossie or giving you to someone else is precisely providing you with an excuse to cover up your wantonness?”

“I love René,” she replied.

“You love René, but you desire me more than anyone else,” Mr. Stephen continued.

Yes, it was true; she did indeed desire him. But even if René knew this, what difference would it make? All she could do was remain silent, lower her eyes, and looking Mr. Stephen in the eye was tantamount to an admission.

Then, Mr. Stephen bent down and grasped her shoulders, pulling her down onto the carpet. She lay there on her back, legs curled up, and Mr. Stephen sat on the sofa she had just leaned against, grasping her right knee and pulling her to his side. Because her face was towards the fireplace, the firelight shone on her curled-up groin and buttocks. Mr. Stephen didn't let go, but suddenly ordered her to touch herself, forbidding her to close her legs. She was first stunned, then obediently reached out her right hand, her fingers touching the clitoris that was already protruding from her pubic hair, looking like it was burning, right where her tender labia met.

But she withdrew her hand, and murmured, "I can't."

Indeed, she couldn't. The only time she had ever secretly caressed herself was in her warm, dark bed at home, alone in bed, but she had never tried to reach orgasm this way. Later, she would sometimes orgasm in her sleep, only to wake in disappointment, because it always made her nervous and was fleeting.

Mr. Stephen stared at her, motionless. She couldn't bear it any longer and muttered again, "I can't," before closing her eyes.

A memory flashed through her mind, one that still filled her with the same intense nausea to this day: the first time she had seen someone else do this. She was fifteen years old. It was the image of Marianne, sunk in a leather chair in a hotel room: one leg draped over the armrest, her head on the other, caressing herself in front of him, moaning incessantly. Marianne also recounted an incident: One day, she was masturbating in her office, thinking she was alone, when her boss happened to walk in and saw what she was doing.

Marianne's office was an empty room with pale green walls, and faint light streamed in from a dusty north-facing window. There was only an armchair for visitors, placed opposite the desk.

"Did you slip away quickly?" she asked.

"No," Marianne replied, "he made me do it again. This time he locked the door, made me take off my underwear, and push the chair to the window."

At the time, she thought Marianne was very brave; she admired Marianne greatly, but was also afraid of her. She firmly refused to masturbate in front of Marianne and vowed she would never do it in front of anyone.

Marianne laughed dismissively and said,

"Just you wait until your lover begs you to."

René had never asked her to do this; if he had, would she have complied? Yes, of course she would, but the thought of René's eyes reflecting the same disgust she felt in Marianne terrified her; it was utterly absurd. And since it was Mr. Stephen's request, it seemed even more absurd. She didn't care if Mr. Stephen was disgusted, but she couldn't, she simply couldn't do it. So she murmured for the third time, "I can't."

Though her voice was so low it was almost a whisper, he heard her. He ignored her, simply stood up, gathered the hem of his bathrobe, and ordered her to stand.

"Is this your obedience?" he said.

He grabbed both her wrists with his left hand and slapped her across the face with his right. She swayed; if he hadn't held her so tightly, she would have fallen to the ground.

"Kneel and listen," he said, "I have to say, it seems René's training of you is far from satisfactory."

"I always obey René," she murmured.

“You are confusing love with obedience. You must obey me without loving me, and I need not love you.”

Hearing this, O felt a strange, inexplicable hatred and a storm of rebellion rise within her. Deep in her heart, she silently denied every word she heard, denied her own promises of submission and enslavement, denied the vows she had made, denied her own desires, denied her naked body, her sweat, her trembling limbs, and the dark circles around her eyes.

When he, as René had mentioned he would do, made her kneel, elbows on the floor, head between her arms, buttocks raised, and forced his way into her from behind, she struggled, clenching her teeth in anger.

The first time, she didn't cry out. He entered again, this time more violently, making her scream. Her scream was both from pain and from resistance, and he seemed to fully understand this. She also knew—he was pleased to have made her scream, because it meant she had been conquered.

Afterward, he helped her to her feet, and before releasing her, he told her that what he had ejaculated inside her would turn into blood, slowly seeping from the wounds he had inflicted on her, wounds that would forever burn her, the only exception being when her buttocks were available for his use. He would have to enforce this in his own way.

René had given him the right to use her in this special way, and he was undoubtedly willing to exercise that right fully; she had better not harbor any illusions. He reminded her that she had agreed to be René's slave, and therefore she was also his slave, but it seemed she didn't quite understand—or rather, hadn't consciously realized—what her promises included. By the time she understood this, it would be too late to escape.

As she listened to him, she thought to herself: For him, it's probably too late to escape his infatuation with her. She wasn't going to be tamed by him anytime soon, and by the time she was, he would have learned how to love her. There was one exception, and only one, in her inner rebellion and her outwardly displayed timid refusal: she hoped to leave a shy image of herself in Monsieur Stephen's mind, just as she had in René's, and hoped he would feel more for her than merely desire.

This was not because she had fallen in love with him, but because she knew in her heart that René loved Monsieur Stephen with the passion of a boy for his brother, and she believed he was ready to offer her to Monsieur Stephen's every whim, doing everything in his power to satisfy him. She had an infallible intuition: René would imitate Monsieur Stephen and try to learn his mannerisms, and if Monsieur Stephen showed any disdain for her, René would be hurt.

No matter how much he loved her, he would be hurt in ways he had never experienced before, not even in ways he had ever dreamed of—a hurt that the opinions of Rossi's men could not inflict upon him. This was because, to Rossi, he was the master; after he handed her over to those men, their opinions of her came from him. Here, he was no longer the master; instead, Monsieur Stephen was Renée's master. René himself wasn't fully aware of this; in other words, René idolized him, constantly trying to catch up with him, wanting to compete with him.

This was why he wanted to share everything with him, and why he gave O to him: it was clear she had been given to him without reservation. René might continue to love her, as long as Mr. Stephen considered her valuable and loved her. Only then did everything become clear: Mr. Stephen would be her master, regardless of what René thought, he would be her only master, and their relationship would be a master-slave relationship in the truest sense. She couldn't expect any pity from him; but couldn't she expect even a little bit of love from him?

Sitting languidly in the large armchair by the fireplace, Mr. Stephen left O standing there naked, awaiting his next command, and she waited silently. Finally, he stood up and led her away. O was still naked except for her high heels and black stockings, and she followed him up a flight of stairs into a small bedroom. It was so small that there was only room for a bed in one corner, a dressing table in another, and a chair between the bed and the window. This tiny room was connected to a slightly larger room, Mr. Stephen's room, with a shared washroom between them.

First, she washed and dried herself—her beanie was pink with light floral patterns—then took off her high heels and stockings, and climbed into the cold bed. The window was open, and outside was the pitch-black night.

Before closing the door connecting the two rooms, Mr. Stephen went to O, who was already lying on the bed, and kissed her fingertips. He had done this once before, when she stood up from the bar stool, kissing the iron ring on her hand as a greeting. Thus, he had entered her body with his hands and penis, ravaging her mouth and buttocks, and in the end, he only allowed his lips to touch her fingertips.

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