The realities of submission - the oath (3/3)

Master’s message entitled ‘Final Session.’

I am saddened by the reproach from Master about my forgetting the staggered 5 levels of punishment. It has been so long. I am sure I gave a good punishment in the right vein, if not exactly right, at least achieving levels 3 and 4.

I now remove my stockings and am bare-naked. It is a state that the slut I am loves beyond measure. Never I feel purely natural. Always 'sex' comes to my mind. I deserve punishment.

I lay down spread-eagled, limbs in all directions, and recite:
"I, Vanna Vechian, will obey my Master in all ways for as long as he chooses me to be his slave.
"He may do as he wishes with me.
"He may sell me, let his friends use me as he sees fit. I have no rights.
"This I solemnly swear on the book of 'O'"

The dog crawls to the bed and climbs on it, finding the whip. I am so ready for this and want the entire world to witness. I am a slut. There is no other way about it.

Legs raised and apart, so exposed and available, I recite my oath, confident and with steady voice.

With force I lash out on my vagina and hit the left side. I draw breath in through clenched teeth under fierce pain, yet happy and willing.

My oath, steady.

Second lashing, on what appears to be the same spot exactly. I groan, develop tears. The pain abates.

Oath, unsteady.

Lashing, right side, bearable.

Oath, steady.

Lashing, left again. I shred my throat.

Oath, sobbing, but I manage.

Lashing, right. Endorphins at their top. Past pain.

Oath, steady, mechanical.

Lashing, right.

Oath, steady, proud.

Lashing, inner thigh left. Oath. Again inner thigh and oath. I could take more. The oath is a mantra, the pain a drone.

Lashing on inner right thigh, oath. The same repeated.

I am literally ready for anything and anybody. Belong to the world.

I tie my ankles to the far bed corners with scarves. Renewed clothespins on my nipples. Third coming. They are a trifle.

In a daze.

My instructions tell me to access my clitoris, gently, and my dear labia. I do and ever so slowly leave the world of the painslut I had become and enter that of the woman of senses I am.
The removal of the clothespins, thankfully, I bear well without leaving the land of the senses.
On the wave of pain I come immediately when resuming fingering. It is an earth shattering orgasm. I feel I rocket into the universe. Then lie still for a great time.
Find myself fiddling again. Fingers, always preferable to a vibrator to me, sensitive and sensing. Have a series of 3, 4 low intensity but stretched orgasms which draw spasms through my entire lower body.

I AM SO THANKFUL FOR THIS DAY.

Often I fear losing my sexual self in the rut of daily life. It is back

Oath. I sing it!

My hot shower is like born-again baptism. Senses. I feel so whole and fulfilled. How can I deny! I observe how marked I am, thighs and vagina. Will camouflage by wearing opaque anthracite pantyhose. Pretext: the cold. Torso will remain naked. He may see faint red marks on my breasts, but I easily camouflage these by cream.

One hour before return of my husband. I love him. And Master.

The realities of submission - the oath (2/3)

I have sat at the PC, like a woman, not a dog, with the whip marks on my left thigh and the marks of the clothespins lingering. I feel them all. My first message is off to you.

I open the next message, for the 'Second Session'. I am keen to go on. I like being active and dedicated, active with my body, dedicated to you.

Back at the mirror, forehead on the floor, in front of the mirror. I saw myself bending forward.

I kneel as before, knees apart. I remove my bra. Breasts are so naked and free! Bless them.

I place clothespins on my nipples. I am sure I was not intended to apply them before when I did, to achieve Level 3. I bite my lips when I apply them to my nipples again, one by one. I utter a guttural scream, mouth closed. Dear! Quick breathing; I fear hyperventilation. Manage to control my breath.

My voice is unsteady still. The pain in my nipples abates slowly.
"I, Vanna Vechian, will obey my Master in all ways for as long as he chooses me to be his slave.
"He may do as he wishes with me.
"He may sell me, let his friends use me as he sees fit. I have no rights.
"This I solemnly swear on the book of 'O'".

I get up in order to comply with Master's wish to display myself as if on a market. That gives me unequivocal pleasure, though a hint of embarrassment never leaves me. I stand hips forward, legs apart and open my vagina with both hands pulling the labia apart. I am a slut and whore. Buy me!

Down to the kitchen. I decide to descend backwards, so that I can go on all fours, carefully.

I wet my labia with the water in the bowl. (Oh, would my juices be enough!) Then rub sugar on them from the sugar pot. This hurts a little through the scraping of the sugar crystals on the locations where the clothespins where. The act of sweetening my lips does arouse me. I like being busy with my vagina. I am a slut. The vinegar I am to apply now stings slightly. Sweet and sour. I feel like a pig, to be served live on an oriental banquet. I imagine being displayed and perused by feasting eyes, in honour of you.

Back to the bed and the dog whip. I lie as before, very open. At five-minute intervals I apply five hard strikes with the whip to my right thigh. The mood is no longer punishment of myself for submitting to all this for a remote Master, you! It is purely your honour that drives me, and my own pleasure. I am a slave, taking pleasure in the pain and humiliation.

In front of the mirror, kneeling with open thighs, I read again from 'O'. I read the passages where Jacqueline and O have flirted with some men at a café terrace and O is peached on by J, then punished and forced to eat "for the first time" nude amongst her dressed group. It is perhaps not a key section, but it has always moved me.

Level 4 punishment - I am still embarrassed by not knowing its specification. I apply the same additional 16 pins, as well as one on my tongue and two on my earlobes. I know that cannot be fully as intended. I am beyond myself with pain meanwhile. Oh, will I ever get used to this? This second time is so much worse than the first. I don't like myself. Need punishment for accepting the punishment. A mad conundrum. A glimpse in the mirror shows a deranged woman, wet eyes, make-up spoilt, dribbling from her mouth. Can this be me? A sane corner of my mind is wondering.

In frenzy I remove all of the pins and rush to the bathroom, get in the tub and cool my all with cold water.

The order to play with my vibrator does not land on fertile ground. I feel frozen, alien to the concept of sex and arousal. To my surprise this changed within a few minutes, when as a light at the end of a tunnel a pinprick of pleasure reveals itself, which then like an unstoppable train at great speed washes over me. I have to force myself to stop playing lest I come.

Yin and yang.... Ice cubes to be inserted in my primary hole, four, quickly!, plugged by a tampon. Blinding pain again, which abates slowly.

I eat and drink like a fool of a dog, on the ground in the kitchen. I AM hungry, very hungry. I have over 30mins left, which I use to lounge on the sofa, listening to Mozart's Cosí fan tute, typing this message to you.

The realities of submission - the oath (1/3)

Master,

I will report through e-mail to you for now. If it pleases you, I will place in Blog soonest after, without your name.

I am at the PC dressed in black hold-ups and quarter cup bra. Salmon coloured. Wear slippers when on stone floors, nothing when on carpet. Really redundant, as will be on all fours, a position that I love and hate. I have painted my face in war make-up, that is: obvious, black lines, large areas, striking colours (amber, blue, green) (ref. my ‘Day to Remember’,.www.vannavechian.com, under ‘Autobio’.) Want it to be theatrical.

Reading your mail called 'First session'. Make printed copy.

Crawl to kitchen on all fours. The floor is cold. As said I love and hate this position. It is truly humiliating. I am aware of my exposed rear and no less of my moving udders. I do feel like a dog, or rather a cow, as my udders are indeed large and swinging, unlike those of a bitch. I prepare the bowls with bread, in chunks, and water, for later.

I crawl up to the bedroom upstairs.

My friend the mirror. I kneel, knees apart, hands behind head. I watch myself. Having been naked routinely now around the house, in itself seeing my nude form is not a shock. The war paint, the stockings and quarter-bra change that. I am a slut and a whore. I focus on my vagina. I sense it twice, with my eyes and internally. These sensations feed upon each other. I get aroused.

Then I extend forward and place my forehead on the floor. My hands need to help. I am not a gymnast! Arms forward, like a nun prostrating for her god. I am thankful for losing sight of myself. Physically it is hard to sit still like this. I feel cramps coming, which I fight successfully.

My beloved 'O' is to act as the Bible. "I, Vanna Vechian, will obey my Master in all ways for as long as he chooses me to be his slave.
"He may do as he wishes with me.
"He may sell me, let his friends use me as he sees fit. I have no rights.
"This I solemnly swear on the book of 'O'."

I am glad!

Gladly I write the words SLAVE on both breast tops, each time followed by the oath.

I am embarrassed not to be able to find the specification of my 'level 3' punishment on my PC. Then I remember a generation of notes died on my PC when it crashed. I deserve punishment for not having backed-up enough. I do the following in the hope that this is at least equivalent to Level 3. I take 18 clothespins and place them, one by one, on my nipples and in four positions on each of my breasts around the nipples, an inch removed. That makes for ten. I am verging on tears already. Each fresh application is a bite, which numbs as time passes. Advancing, each new one is worse than the previous. Still two times four to go on each of my outer labia. I cry and whimper, hardly make it to the end. Tears at the end. I ruffle each set, only to yield more tears. I pray I have suffered enough, for my above crime and not having had enough time for Master. In a frenzy I remove all 18 pins. This is the true torture. The pain is overwhelming. I am shaking, jumping and beyond myself. I have not reached the soothing endorphin plateau.

My voice shakes initially when I take 'O' and read from it aloud. I read the scene where Sir S presents O to the Commander, where she wears the owl mask and is ordered to have her pubic hair removed.

My dog whip is ready and I take it with me to the bed. I lie down on my back, legs apart and drawn up. My genitalia are so exposed! Five times I hit my inner left thigh hard. I truly want to. I need to punish myself for having done the clothespins, for having done the previous whip lashes. I punish myself for punishing myself. That is the motive - I am not a good slave - and to the honour of my Master.

Privacy and identity

I am right to guard my privacy jealously? Apart from the little photo on my homepage (www.vannavechian.com), I have passed little traceable information to even the most trusted friends that I encountered in my virtual 'Vanna Vechian, erotic writer' existence. And I chose that particular photograph because it resembles me surprisingly little. It was taken by a newspaper photographer for a newspaper.
I have resisted getting a webcam or taking and sending comprising photographs of myself. Not that I am not tempted to 'out' myself as the sex-obsessed slut that I am. Not that I don't trust my most trusted virtual friends. It is simply a hard principle which I established early on, just like I also resolved not to join any paysite. Water down that principle and end up, so I fear, in the internet jungle, my husband's and my reputation in shreds. Or pay to bankruptcy for all the sweets on the internet.
Many of my trusted virtual friends trust me. To do as I say I do, instead of pretending. To be what I am, a recently 50 year old woman.
Is it possible to tell this from my writing? That I have experienced the 'autobio' stories, that I am a woman?
Or is the evidence of photographs and webcams indispensable?
I am never completely sure myself whether my trusted friends are what they seem. I have worried about that at times. Now I try to forget it and enjoy them. That is the beauty and ugliness of the internet, that you are never really sure but can live with illusions forever. And what is true and real in reality? Is that principally easier to tell?

voyeurism

I live in a house that can be seen neither from the road nor from the neighbouring houses. It is a nice house, no palace, but it happens to be secluded. Good for me. I have had the practice to be naked around the house, from rising to when I would leave the house, and often I undress again upon arriving home.

It is not that I am a nudist per se. The idea of 'sex' is never far away and I like it that way. I am an exhibitionist. During my twenties I openly did so - see my Statuesque Beauty (www.vannavechian.com). These days I exhibit myself without being seen. I have our reputation to defend.

Imagine the shock when for the very first time since moving here 6 years ago I was spotted. Where? I entered my conservatory with a book and he was trespassing in the garden. What? He saw a wellpreserved woman in her late 40s and I a male teenager, of 16 or so. Did I know him? No. He was not a neighbour's son. A grandson, a nephew, who came to fetch a ball? Or a young thief or troublemaker? I was mildly shocked and he?

We looked at each other for half a minute, when he fled and I stayed. Robbed of my dignity.

Outline of a good film about the Story of O (part 4 of 4)

After we established that no good film after “l’Histore d’O” currently exists, that is: good enough, and that a good one could have been made, certainly today, I want to be constructive and bring forward a specific idea for the film. I was talking to my friend James about the subject and the following idea has been jointly initiated.
The bulk of the film is a set of interviews with O by a series of interviewers, men and women, in differing styles and different settings, studio chat show, private conversation, outside, with and without audience. The interviews would cover the entire story, as we know it.
Some interviewers would be hard and judgemental, some soft and understanding, others sensationalist or aloof, feminist or male chauvinist. O meanwhile would be unmoved and consistent. She would answer each question, no matter how it was stated, no matter how crude, in the most natural of ways, with steady gaze. She would use coarse language, but never a coarse tone. She may show the whip or branding iron, a particular article of clothing or a marking disc. She would be candid, explicit, shameless, but never provocative, rather modest, girlish.
Visually, the film would present the various interviewers with their great variety of facial expressions and body language, uneasy, shocked, interested, fascinated, incredulous, condemning, understanding, wanting to intervene or convert etc. We would see extremely brief, 1 second, flashes of action cut in visually, the sound of the interview proceeding uninterrupted.
Between the interviews we would see played out key sections of the story, of 5-7 minutes each, such as the one I mentioned above, with the young couple visiting O at the Commander's party, and the one where she first arrives at Roissy, that where she sorts out her clothes in her apartment under orders from René, the scene in the little dungeon at the end of her first stay at Roissy, that where she is being used by Sir Stephen when Nora suddenly enters, a scene at Anne-Marie's, where she is first inspected by a fellow-woman, her branding, where she whips another woman and a number of other key scenes.
Afterwards I had to think of a film by Marguerite Duras I once saw, which I just remember as a man (Depardieu) and woman (Duras) narrating a story, with some minimalist supporting images. Fascinating, but for a very ‘elite’ audience. I am not stating that our idea goes to extremes in maximising the appeal. It will be a film for the somewhat educated mind. I am convinced meanwhile that our film has the potential to move any woman or man who appreciates the book.

Could a good film on the Story of O be made today? (part 3 of 4)

Could a worthy film on the Story of O succeed now? I am certain. I have tried to argue it could have back then, in Just Jaeckin’s 70s. It can certainly succeed now. And closer to the mainstream. (Not by Just Jaeckin, not then, not now.)
Nudity is less of an issue now than it was in the 70s. BDSM is all but acceptable now. There is no soul in the Western world below 60 years of age that has not played with S&M or or at least considered it. The feminist aspect and/ or the political correctness? Above all I think it is the extreme apparent one-sidedness of the relationship between O and her men that is the issue, not so much the nudity and whipping.
On that count, I don’t believe the film could be made in Hollywood. Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut has been made on the edge of the Hollywood system and goes fairly far on the mental level. That level is the one that counts, be sure! Still, better examples are Patrice Chereau's Intimacy and its depiction of ruthless, loveless physical action, Catherine Breillat’s Romance X and its showing a woman that wants love, but also rough sex, which her man does not supply and she has get elsewhere, Michael Haneke’s The Pianist, about a surpressed woman, who engages a young man to dominate her - all 'European Cinema.'
On the count of nudity and above all given the extreme form the relationships in these films take, loveless, obsessive, it is without doubt that the Story of O can be done justice. Perhaps the physical torture must be suggested or shown with restraint, but that should not compromise the essence. Go Chereau Breillat, or Haneke!

Bare pubes and clean underwear

My naked pubes. Still not used to the permanency. You know how your mothers always warned you to put on clean underwear in case you had an accident and would be handled by a nurse etc.? There are thoughts like that which come to me now. What will the nurse think about my pubes when I get in that situation? How about the nurse when I am old, grey and in a home? Or won't I be such an exception? Or will they all be bare themselves at that juncture in time? Will they actually be pleased with me, as bare is cleaner? At least my hair there will never become grey. (Was still dark when it went.)
I am making sure my underwear is always clean, just in case.

Extremely nude - pubic hair gone

In my 49th year I had my pubic hair go forever. Laser. I had been in two minds before. I was a pioneer to shave consistently, I think, over twenty years ago. Then came a decade and a half when I consistently did not shave. Could not bother. Just trimmed the bikini-line. After I started writing and immersing myself in the sharp end of sexuality, I started again, off and on. On, I wanted to be nude down there, to emphasise, to show availability, to invite, entice. Off, because it is all the rage, why would I look like a little girl and I am never one to follow popular trends. Quite the contrary. So why did I decide to burn my bridges and go nude forever, short of the occasional maintenance that may be required? The essential reasons are named under 'on' before. Added to that was the arousing idea it would be permanent. Nude forever. In the changing rooms of pools and gyms all would see mine as I could not longer hide. Finally, there was the once-off experience of having it done, to have to expose myself intimately to that beauty parlour assistant.
It have me a thrill, as well as it embarrassed me. Two minds, as always. Undressed at the bottom, gynecologist chair, stirrups --- she will have seen it all before, I know, and she was very efficient, as they say. At times I felt her breath as she inspected her work. Would she have smelt me? I felt she must have, or seen the swelling or even seen my wetness. The latter is likely, as she did handle me down there in her justified desire to perform perfectly. Her conversation was vivid, but 'official.' She did not say, ' Madam, I like your labia minor, I do think your juices are excessive, your smell is as different from that of the others as your face is...' Nor did I invite any comments along those lines, the chicken I was, Vanna Vechian, the erotic writer, or not! I was relatively silent, but when I did talk it was about the record benign November weather, the elections, my hairstyle and clothes, holidays etc. The pain is acceptable, but gets to one at some point. The number of hairs is so high! Even if I am not the densest I have ever seen.
Then I was done. When home, I undressed at the mirror and felt like crying. I had lost the capacity to grow hair, mine since 12, 13. I needed my mind to put me straight. The smoothness and all the 'on' reasons were now satisfied. At 49.