The Image (6 page)

Kneeling on the thick wool rug, perfectly straight, thighs well apart, hands held in the air, she didn't even dare wipe away the tears which ran slowly down her face.

We sat there for a long time, looking at her.

Again it was little Anne who had to go and fetch the shiny metal chains. With their heightened coloring, her martyred buttocks seemed even more disturbing than before.

As soon as she returned, Claire, who had gotten up from her chair, brutally pushed her back down on her knees, on the excuse that she hadn't carried out the order quickly enough. With one hand she held her victim's wrists together behind her back and with the other slapped her with all her might, four or five times.

The girl began to cry twice as hard. Without paying the slightest attention, Claire made her come over to me, under the whip, dragging herself on her knees from one edge of the rug to the other. Once there, she put the chains around her wrists and ankles.

The chains were made up of sturdy links of chrome-plated steel, finished at one end by a larger ring, and at the other by a hook with an automatic lock. One simply passed the hook through the ring to make a loop to hold the limb, twisted it once or twice around a support, and locked the hook onto whatever link it reached to.

This system was fast and convenient. In a few seconds the girl's hands had been chained to the two arms of my chair, which, in the way they were detached from the seat, seemed almost designed for this purpose. The ankles then, were linked to gether, one foot crossed over the other, the same arrangement I had admired earlier in the photo graph, which made it impossible to bring the thighs together. The girl, furthermore, was obliged to lean over me, her chest between my knees, her blonde head coming closer to meet my hands.

Very gently I caressed her tear-stained face, letting my fingers wander over her neck and breasts, her shoulders, underneath her arms. Then I asked Claire to go on with the punishment. But the renewed whiplashes, landing on the bruised buttocks, only made the girl cringe feebly.

Claire seemed satisfied, for the moment, to see her friend so powerless. She applied the whip more listlessly, more cautiously, almost with a kind of affection.

I took the delicate neck in my hands again and forced little Anne to hold her face up to mine. I leaned down to her mouth and kissed her. Her lips melted under mine. I drew back at once and, tightening my hold on her neck, told her:

“You'd better treat me better than that, you little slut.” I began to kiss her again. Her obedient lips and tongue began moving pleasurably under mine, as the whip cracked more sharply now on the naked flesh.

As I guided the docile neck down between my thighs I noticed that Claire had put a little pillow next to us on which she was kneeling, one leg bent. She had dropped the whip, and her right hand carefully caressed the two rounded shapes, marked with bright red stripes, which I could view my self in a very pleasant perspective from above.

The knowing hand moved toward the cunt, from the rear, and once again disappeared into the crevice. I could hear Claire murmuring:

“She is soaking, the little darling... ,” and after a while:

“It's a real lake.” Her thumb, easily finding the orifice, sank in up to the hilt, withdrew, and plunged in again. Anne began to moan.

Her moans got longer, and harsher, as the caress continued, the hand moving to and fro between her thighs.

From where I was sitting I couldn't follow the exact movements of the fingers, but whatever they were, judging from the mounting cries of the girl, the undertaking was about to be crowned with success.

For my part, I was content at first just to play with the moist mouth and the tips of the breasts, while contemplating the lovely buttocks surging back and forth now with an insistent rhythm. Then it occurred to me that Claire was not so naive as not to realize what irregularities she was exposing her friend to in presenting her to me in this position. I took out my own organ and held it to the lowered face of our prisoner.

Shrinking back at first, she finally abandoned herself, even to rounding her lips indulgently and skillfully. Without any doubt this was not her first experience. I put my hand on the back of her neck to lightly guide the upward and downward movement of her willing head.

When I felt that the little bitch was about to reap the fruits of her labors I shouted to Claire:

“Whip her again, now!”

Claire leaned back, one knee on the pillow, and began to whip the chained girl furiously, aiming her blows at the most sensitive areas, the inside of the thighs and the region between the anus and the vulva, which made the poor thing jump convulsively and utterly delightfully.

To insure complete control I grasped the blonde head firmly with both hands so that I could immobilize it, or move it up and down, up and down, according to the dictates of my pleasure.

At the close of this last session Claire informed me that in the future I could have little Anne whenever I wanted her, and could amuse myself with her however I pleased. Any time I judged that she hadn't been sufficiently obliging, or, sim ply, if a clumsy move on her part hadn't been quite to my taste, she would be severely punished.

These arrangements, made in the presence of the interested party in a bar near Saint-Sulpice, suited me admirably.

I didn't feel any pressing need to exercise my new prerogatives right away. In the days that followed we were content just to have dinner to gether, the three of us, in various restaurants of the quarter whose inner recesses provided some degree of privacy, so that I could sample, from time to time, the least offensive of my privileges. Claire watched the progress of her pupil with a critical eye, progress in the art of becoming a perfect slave.

Sometimes the inquisitive look of a waiter or of an astonished customer would interrupt one of our wordless little scenes, or bizarre remarks... The hint of scandal, which only deepened Anne's embarrassment, added immeasurably to our own passions.

If by chance these practices aroused me beyond control I always had recourse to the car, parked in some deserted street, where I would have the girl caress and fondle me.

One afternoon that week her mistress even let me have her all to myself: I was to take her shop ping for various items of lingerie which I was charged with selecting for her.

Claire preferred narrow lace waistbands and stockings with embroidered tops. As for brassieres, she would only tolerate the skimpiest models which support the breast from underneath with out covering it entirely, leaving bare as much of the nipple as possible. Since Anne was not sup posed to wear either panties or a slip, we were limited to these three articles.

I thought at once that the fun would lie in the trying on of these garments. But when I noticed in the window of a store on the Faubourg Saint Honore the charming features of a salesgirl, it came to me that such a ceremony could be far more lively than I'd imagined. Having learned from Claire that Anne had been savagely beaten that morning (for a very minor mistake, by the way) I could already picture her shame in front of the astonished fitters whom I would call, on purpose, for a consultation.

Claire had given me no further instructions, so the whole thing was up to me. If she preferred not to come with us it must be that she didn't want to complicate matters: a couple always seems less suspicious and naturally is more self-assured. All we needed was an amenable salesgirl: young and pretty as they often are in the better stores, and not too easily shocked. She should not, however, bring an overactive complicity to her services, but should simply be a witness, understanding yet discreet.

This one seemed to fit the bill. The store was quiet and luxurious, and displayed many delecta ble models. The young woman who was waiting for some customers behind a showcase of pink slips on hangers must have been twenty-five or thirty. She was a brunette, and had a nice figure. Seeing me looking at her, she gave a little smile of en couragement: it is always wise to encourage a man who wants to buy feminine underthings. We went in.

The pretty salesgirl turned to my companion to ask what we wanted, but it was I who answered, pointing to a white nylon garter belt that was shown in the window. Anne, as usual, held her tongue and lowered her eyes.

The item was therefore presented to me for inspection, along with several other similar models. I gave my opinion on certain details of their res pective lines, making clear which ones I thought were most suitable, and stressing the necessity for wide openings both in front and in back. The sales girl smiled understandingly, and then went on to discuss the quality of the various garments.

Our conversation was perfectly natural and pleasant. She didn't seem to wonder too much about the self-effacing behavior of my companion.

“This,” I said, “is in a sense the most amusing one. But it comes down a little too far: I'm afraid it won't completely uncover the triangle, you know, at the lower part of the stomach.” The woman looked at me. Then she glanced at Anne and looked back at me.

“That
is
a drawback, wouldn't you say?” I added.

“It's really very comfortable to wear, sir.”

“I don't mean to wear, of course. I mean it might interfere with the view... and with the hands, as well.” This time her smile was much less professional. She even blushed a little. I turned to Anne and said:

“I think you'd better try it on.”

Anne answered, “Yes, if that is your wish,” but a little too softly, and I'm not sure if the girl under stood the implications of the phrase.

I said that we would take the opportunity to try on, at the same time, a matching bra, and I described the sort of thing I was looking for. The salesgirl unhesitatingly brought out the most indecent things she had.

Having made my selection, on the pretext of wanting to show her the garter belt with the ruffle that Anne was wearing, I calmly lifted Anne's dress up above her thighs:

“This is what I mean, you see...”

The pretty salesgirl stared at me in amazement, finally, and then turned her glance to the smooth, firm flesh I was showing her.

“Yes, I see,” she answered simply.

I asked Anne to hold up her dress herself while I explained the intricacies of lace ruffles hiding the elastic, using both hands to stretch them out in my demonstration.

“Pull your dress up higher,” I told her, “and come closer to the light.”

She obeyed me immediately. The girl, who had been leaning over to watch, had plenty of time to note that her young client wore no panties. She must even have been able to smell the penetrating perfume Claire made Anne put on her blonde pubic hair.

While Anne was getting undressed to try on the garter belt and the bra in the fitting room, I stayed outside with the salesgirl talking about the weather. She entered quite freely into this most ordinary conversation, but her expression still had something bemused, and curious, about it. I saw that we could go further.

I turned toward the fitting room:

“Hello, are you ready yet?” There was no answer.

I went on, in a benevolent, fatherly tone:

“Well, now, let's come have a look at you...” and I headed for the closed curtain which I opened to join Anne.

She was quite charming, all in white. She had on only the new bra and the garter belt, each more delightfully immodest than the other. I pulled her close to me to kiss her.

After a few moments I decided to call the sales girl. I stuck my head out between the curtains:

“Would you mind coming here for a minute, please?” She came over smiling bravely, looking me straight in the eye.

The room was large enough for three people. Anne was at the other end, facing us. The sales girl stood beside me. Anne held her arms out from her body so that we could see the effect more easily. Instinctively she had half opened her mouth and parted her knees. I held one of her wrists up higher and made her turn slightly, to the right, and then to the left.

“As you can see,” I said, “they both will do. But I think you should take in the belt a little.”

The young dark-haired woman went and put her finger between the nylon and the hollow of Anne's waist. I had the impression that she was really beginning to be affected by this unusual spectacle.

“Turn around!” I ordered Anne, letting go of her wrist.

She hid her face in her hands and turned. The two round globes of her buttocks were crisscrossed by a dozen red lines which stood out clearly on the delicate skin. As several hours had passed since her punishment, the general discoloration had faded and only the marks of the whip itself were visible on the blonde flesh.

I looked at the pretty salesgirl but she no longer dared to look at me, transfixed by this sudden revelation and, as it were, touched by its grace. Her arm, held out to adjust the hooks at the waist, had paused midway between herself and the revered object which she was now afraid even to touch.

Upon closer examination the red marks did not seem to be uniform: the leather lash had left a series of dotted lines which corresponded to the bulges in the braiding, wounding the flesh unevenly. Claire must have hit very hard. Certain of the stripes still stood out clearly... I couldn't help lightly running my fingertips over them to get a better idea, or to make Anne feel more deeply the ignominy of her condition, or to comfort her for having suffered so much...

“It's nothing,” I said to the salesgirl. “Don't give it another thought. She was whipped a little, be cause she wasn't a good girl, that's all.”

We joined our friend again at five o'clock in a very dignified tearoom where several old ladies conversed together in hushed voices.

Claire, who was waiting for us, had chosen a table in the most propitious corner of the room. The pleasure I felt on seeing her astonished me, but then I realized that this day, unless I had seen her, would have been incomplete, would have even been of no value at all.