Vanna Vechian's Erotic Stories & (Art & Life) Scrapbook

misuse of the Vanna Vechian name

2011-05-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

Dear readers,

My Hotmail account has been cracked a while ago and false cheap messages have been sent in my name. This upsets me and my good name. It should not upset you, I can only hope. Nothing to do with me.

There is a link (singular, plural)(sapioslut, nevermind the exact link) that equally has nothing to do with me.

Sad but true. Wish I could help it.

Love, Vanna, yours truely.

The Honesty of Anton Beeke: Troilus & Cressida

2011-01-28T03:39:00.000-08:00

My dear partner made me aware again of this scandalous poster The Honesty of Anton Beeke: Troilus & Cressida.

We are writing 1981.

It was a theatrical poster, out on the streets, showing a rough photo of a female rear and there was shock galore. By the right, religious moral fractions and by feminists and who not.

Shocking, but is shocking wrong?

A day in the office

2011-01-27T09:23:00.000-08:00

Story withdrawn.

my domain www.vannavechian.com

2011-01-09T11:17:00.000-08:00

Friends,

I have (temporarily) given up my domain www.vannavechian.com in response to a price hike by my provider.

I will be posting my existing stories, or most, in this place in the interim. 'Three graces and one' is the first, as you will have seen.

Forget-me-not.

Love, Vanna

Three graces and one, by Vanna Vechian

2011-01-09T11:11:00.000-08:00

We have agreed to meet in Café Americain in Amsterdam. I would be there first and you would recognise me, as I would wear bright red from top to bottom and be reading a book. You have not been to the Café before.

It is a bright summer's day. When you enter, it takes some time for your eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. Americain is large L-shaped space with a multitude of columns and corners. This makes you slightly nervous, even if you have been given the dominant's role. There is no woman in red that glares you in the face. You are wondering why this is so, why I have not made sure you'd see me immediately. Slowly you start walking around and surveying the space. There! A woman in red, of about the right age... But she is busy talking to someone, though she has an open book in front of her. She does not look your way when you stand still looking at her for the interminable period of half a minute. You decide to go on. You pass many people, predominantly women. None in red... Was the woman you saw the one you are after? Then in a remote alcove you see two women in red talking to each other. They sense you standing there, stop their conversation and both look your way, quizzically, ironically. Then they both stand up. Both could be me.

You are about to speak when you hear a voice behind you. 'Peter...?' You turn around only to see a woman in red walking away from you. The one you saw before. As you start to follow, you hear the footsteps of two other women following you.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course you have to go with them. Of course you know you are being played with. You realise that they cannot all be Vanna, that two of them, at least, are not and - will they tell you? With a shock you realise that the woman of your desire may not even be among them. But then they may lead you to her. There is no choice.

The bright light outside first manifests itself through the loose folds of the blouse and skirt of that woman when she steps out of the café's hallway into the open. You glimpse for a moment at her true form, but then the sun immediately blinds you as you step outside yourself. The leading woman strides on without delay. Your group walks for about ten minutes. You are aware of the attention it draws from the people on the street. What a curious procession! You watch the woman in front of you and hear the two behind you click-clacking on. The sight of the motion of the first and the regular and deliberate sound of the heels all around you place you in a half-hypnotised state. Her straight shoulders and free and easy hair waving... The legs that alternate in pushing back the light fabric of the skirt that ondulates as well... The forceful steps... Click, clack... Not once does she look back.

You have reached a quieter section of the greatest of Amsterdam's canals and the woman before you ascends the six steps to the front door of a grand house, pushes it open and enters. You follow and so do the other two. None of the three have yet spoken a word. You find the marble hallway and the corridor that follows in relative darkness. Its coolness forms another stark contrast with the outside you have just left. The sound of the heels of the first woman have stopped. She has begun the ascent of a carpeted staircase, lightly, as if weightless. Again you follow, in turn followed by the other two. The first woman arrives on the landing and once again the rhythm of her heels punctuates the silence, this time on wood, as do soon the sounds of the other two sets.

The destination... You have all entered a large, all but empty room at the back of the house. The curtains have almost completely been drawn and are slightly stirred by the light breeze outside. The ceiling is high and ornately decorated, as it the fireplace. Now, finally, the woman turns around and faces you. You stop at a distance of two armlengths. Her gaze is clear, confident and unwavering. You stand there and stare back. Are you as confident as she is? Why is it that you finally turn around to find that the other two stand and face you as well? They form a circle around you. Three against one? One for all and all for one?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gazes of the three are confident, ironic, but not antagonising. But... Why does no one speak, why don't you? Your confidence, however, is sufficient to allow you to take in these women. Yes, they all might fit the image you have built of me, Vanna, which cannot be more accurate than this. About the right age, fairly trim for their age, shoulder-length dark hair, attractive. That is not to say that they look alike. The hair of one a straight, of another slightly curly, the third has a fringe. One has raised cheekbones. There is a little nose amongst them, there are wide-set eyes. You cannot decide who best fits your image of me, Vanna.

But you do make a choice. It is the woman that led the way. Is it because she looks like the leader, the most confident or rather the most likely submissive? Or all of that at the same time? Or because she is the only one that spoke to you... ('Peter...?') Or is the choice arbitrary and you felt compelled to make one? She responds to the first words any of you have spoken since her initial word. Your words are, 'The game is mine now. Turn around, undress and bend over, please.' Her gaze turns downward before she complies and turns around. Had you expected this easy victory at this stage, if that is what this is? Your arousal knows no bounds as you see her undress. It is her back that you see, but you know the time is yours and you will get to see all. A woman's front is the fulfillment, but the back is the promise. It shows the great strength of woman, the delicate neck carried by the shoulders on the strong tapering back, arching back, which narrows at the waist, in turn supported by the hips, both strong and delicate with the soft buttocks and finally strong yet slender legs. A journey! A journey in time too as each part is revealed in turn, as the red bell-shaped skirt is taken off first, followed by the ample buttoned blouse. The chemise she wears is purple. Her legs are bare. The bra is green and she unhooks it expertly, without fumble or hesitation. You notice now that her nails are painted in the same green, as are the French panties that, once taken off the luscious buttocks and cast on the floor, turn to nothing. Oh, and there she goes... She supply bends over and responds to your unspoken command by pulling her buttocks apart with her beautiful hands with the enticing green nails at their ends.

Then all is still.

Her secret passages are on full display and you quietly admire them, as you are quite in control of your arousal. The wrinkled ring of her anus... The double oyster of her vagina... You would have disapproved of the untrimmed pubic hairs you can see around her front passage - you prefer women shorn -, if they had not somehow moved you... A spot of imperfection enhances perfection...

Time stands still. No, you become aware of the clock of the pulsating cock. You have sensed this, but when you turn around you are still surprised to see that the other two women have followed your order quite like the woman you addressed.

Before you spring into action, you do notice that the other two do appear to be shorn...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Is this luxury or deceit? Is Vanna amongst them? Why have you not asked? Is it the fear that the answer may be: no? Do you want to enjoy the luxury before you discover the deceit? Or is indeed your faith in that elusive Vanna, whom you have known and desired for so long but only now will have had a change to meet (or almost)?

You snub the one that you chose, the leader, and approach one of the others, who also shows her passages to you so willingly. These are hairless, yes, but the prime reason for the switch is the willingness of this woman and her sister, who were not directly asked. Her rear is so ripe and enticing, certainly no less so than those of the two others, the leader and the third ...

You grab her hips and halt for a second whilst choosing the hole... Which one? The higher or the lower? The former, the anus, has not been used in the case of Vanna. The vagina will be wet, naturally, and will accept you easily. No, you will take the anus, tight and unclean as it is, even if you hurt yourself too... unlubricated... You brace yourself, ready to thrust forward...

Then, behind you, rustling, followed by a voice that speaks, softly, 'Peter...'

You freeze, but your heart burns... Could this be...?

You then release the sweet hips you were holding and turn around.

You are dazzled, but no less driven to establish your ownership. I see this in your eyes. Dazzled, as you are beholding a bird of paradise. I am dressed in red, yes, but the dress I am wearing is ornate and elaborate, well beyond the practical. It could be a state-dress of a Chinese empress or of a baroque French queen. The high, pleated collar, the shoulder pieces like wings, the sashes and bows, the great pleated skirt... Delicate, yet overpowering. The décolleté, however, is obscene. The breasts are lifted and thrust forward, offered, like large pink apples of flesh. The nipples stand proud in the centre of small and dark areolas. Driven to establish your ownership... It is the obscene bare breasts that give you license. You are inclined to violently destroy this great creation, that both hides and glorifies the wearer, but you don’t. Master of your urges or slave of your fears? The first surely…

You say, 'Vanna, you have thwarted our agreement.

'You have done so in style, however. So much I have to admit. And your appearance exceeds my expectations, even if these have been allowed to build to excessive levels.

'Whilst I admire the playfulness you have displayed, I will not accept it. You must pay for playing with me.

‘I demand that you in turn will satisfy all of your three friends here under my eye.

'Then you will help me be satisfied by the three of them under your vain and idle eye.

'And you, you will ask? Shall I will find you a rogue off the streets, take you both to the first available hotel of sorts and see you be fucked by him?

'Shall I then, at long last, consider you redeemed of your actions? Will I then spend the next twenty-four hours with you in the Amstel Hotel and feast on you and have you feast on me?

‘Or shall I follow my base desires here and now without ado, the desires that have been building to unbearable heights during the years before this meeting?

'My beautiful three graces, uncover this woman!'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright by Vanna Vechian, 2006. Reproduction allowed only for personal use.

Leonard Cohen and his ladies

2010-08-20T13:16:00.000-07:00

This blog has been about art and literature since I resurfaced here to your great readership.

Time to return to the erotic. Mildly and respectfully.

A few words about Leonard Cohen, whom I love and respect.

I am watching Leonard Cohen Live at the Isle of Wight 1970. He is a phenomenon. Sexy is too mundane a word to describe his presence. He is a magician, although that word is an empty cliche too. He looks a bit absent. I know, it was in the middle of the night. I have not seen other performance of that period. On his recent Live in London DVD (2008) and indeed it is the same man. I am certain, however, that during the 2008 concert he is quite conscious of what he does and communicates with his band. Absence then does not apply. I am less sure of that, but do have the feeling he is supremely in control on the 1970 occasion, but by way of casual magic, not by direct and open communication.

Isle of Wight was a war zone before he came on, in the grip of that great tension between organisers, longhaired still, and the audience, who demanded to be admitted free of charge, in the name of some revolution or other. He refers to that a few times and playfully, I think, mentions that they have the number but not the strength to establish their nation. I can not escape the thought that he is at once supportive and ironic, in other words above all that. But he holds them in his grip, firmly, like a magician, a sexy one at that.

The purpose of this blog entry is to air my suspicion that he has a spell on his female backup singers. An erotic spell. Listen to 'The Guests', 'Take this Waltz', 'Dance me to the end of Love' and especially 'If it be your will'. All great songs, whether I am right or wrong in the following. Forgive me, but I can only imagine the Master having severely primed his ladies before the recording. Sex is in the air. Or perhaps he merely looks at them intently during the session, constantly, or rather only sparingly, coyly. The eyes of the lady or ladies on their part will not leave the face of the Master, they adjust their posture, as if offering their breasts, extending backwards their ripe hindquarters, ready for the taking. The relation is clear, he is the Master and they follow. He is a great lover, no doubt, sensitive and full of empathy, but the initiative is his, as is the timing and choice of position - above all whether anything will happen at all and who the chosen one will be. His ladies are ready, as is so clear from the swooning, subservient tones. They do not compete, but like sisters wait for the whims of the Master. It is, to use a big. provocative word, obscene in my eyes, very mildly and respectfully so. Can anyone see this differently? Regardless, I love and respect Leonard Cohen, his ladies and the songs they sing, and everyone that loves them.

Less than zero

2010-08-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

I have just finished Bret Easton Ellis' (BEE) Less than Zero. What amazes me is that Less than Zero is 25 years old this year. Previously, I had read Glamorama (see Wednesday, November 08, 2006), Rules of Attraction and Lunar Park, in this order, and seen the film based on American Psycho. His work has been praised and denounced. Little doubt about his ability, much about his morality, is a quick summary. I enjoyed them all, including the least successful Glamorama, which I commented on before. Cynical his work is not. (Should I care if it wasn't? Oh, I don't know. Not sure I care. I should, but don't. It worries me that I don't.) It is set in and around LA. The cast are sons and daughters of Hollywood producers and directors, rich and spoilt. BEE works hard at putting up attrocities of the milder and extreme sorts, from beautiful drugged out teenage boys serving drug dealers to a snuff movie someone has paid $15,000 for showing a naked girl being raped, mutilated (and later presumably killed.) We follow Clay, the protagonist, first apparently as nihilistic as the rest (as far as we know that rest), later at least aware that he is missing something, such as the ability to say that he once loved his beautiful (ex-)girlfriend Blair. It comes to nothing, because his summer break home ends and he returns to his New England college.
The title 'Less than Zero' refers to an Elvis Costello song, off his 'My aim is true' album. Indeed, it is Elvis that serves as the parent, the way he looks at Clay from the Trust promotion poster, or just past him in fact. The lyrics refer to Oswald Mosley, the UK fascist leader, and perversion in general. No direct clues to BEE's morality tale. (Clues? What do you suggest? I am in control here, baby.) Less than zero, meanwhile. Is that indicative of what Clay is about, having realised he was not going anywhere but unable to act and correct, making him arguably less than his oblivious peers rather than more? Or is less than zero to indicate how the emotional or moral climate is 'freezing', a BEE stock word? That is indeed what the phrase in EC's song suggests.

I know little about BEE. I understand he stems from the circles he describes and that he is elusive. He should be. The fact that he puts so much inside knowledge into his body of work, that the protagonist could indeed be himself is part of the mystique of his work. Not to be spoilt by by BEE revealing what is truth and what fiction, what autobio, what borrowed. (I have read quite a few novels that borrow heavily from truth. A trend, perhaps, in these days of reality television etc. I like it. Food for thought of what truth and fiction really is.)

BEE's Imperial Bedroom is just out, to favourable reviews, judging from those that I have read. The book is waiting for me. As I understand, Clay's vague drive to want to escape from the nihilism of his peers has not borne fruit. He has become part of the Hollywood system. I cannot wait to read it. Elvis Costello returns as the provider of the title. Will he play a cameo role again? (Stay with me. I will be back, dude.)

Performance art: 100 Years, Julia Stoschek Foundation, Düsseldorf

2010-08-01T07:11:00.000-07:00

Dusseldorf had an exhibition on 100 years of performance art. I did not make it (again: what am I doing with my life, when I am so interested? Such is life, procrastination rules.) It has history start at Marcel Duchamps' Tonsure, where usually there is a consensus performance art started in the 60s. Again, art is not what it is. It is context and definition.

This time I reflect on the work of Andrea Fraser. During 2003, she made a performance 'Untitled'. What she did is sleep with a collector in a hotelroom - for reputedly $ 20.000 dollar. Her NYC gallery owner was the pimp. The candidate had to be straight and unmarried. (Fraser cunningly covering herself against litigation?) A video of 1 hour would be made as a record of the performance. 1 Copy for the collector and a few more (4, I believe) for sales.

The video apparently looks like amateurporn. Fraser alone in red dress, pacing, receiving the man, sharing a glass of wine, ending naked in bed doing the business.

Yes, the work is about the human condition, but this is too thin for me. It is principally about art & business: what is art, what does a collector want, the artist selling a little, intimate part of herself.

To me, this is at best a film and acting, not art. Less so than me eternal reference: Emin's unmade bed. It is business too.

William Kentridge: art is not what it is

2010-07-31T04:27:00.000-07:00

Remarkable snippet I found in a Dutch newspaper (NRC) in April (22).

William Kentridge (WK) is a famous South-African graphic artist. He is a 55-yr old man. A show opened in Johannesburg under his name, entitled America Made in China. At the opening, WK turned up as a 24-yr old woman. She was born as Roelien Brink, but changed her name in 2008 officially to William Kentridge. She found WK a genius and wanted to employ his branding. She compared herself to him, and her work. That is conceptual and harder to digest than his accessible work, she stated, so was at a disadvantage. Since "the name is more important than the art" and "art is investment", she decided to make his name hers, which would elevate her work in more than one way. Now we know her too. Apparently WK did not mind, although he did not issue official comment. The fact that he did not is remarkable in itself. Perhaps they both benefit from this little storm of publicity.

How wonderful art is.

To me the point is this. Art is not simply what it is. The value is determined by the context. Modern art especially. It may be all context, just a title, for example. Art for art's sake. Tracy Emin's unmade bed is just an unmade bed, just like yours and mine. It only becomes art because it has been placed in a museum by someone who is called or calls herself an artist. In Titian's and Rembrandt's times this was different. One was a pupil to a Master craftsman and became a Master yourself after delivering a Masterpiece. I am not saying all this was an purely objective process, but judging technique at least had an element of objectivity. This has been lost. Roeline Brink's work is elevated by the WK brand. A meaningful discussion can be held about this. If I were capable of producing a Vermeer, however, it would only be hailed until it became clear it was made by myself, regardless of how much a 'Vermeer' it is. Consider the famous Han van Meegeren's 'Vermeer's Emmausgangers'. That was a very well made fake, a beautiful piece but was blasted when it was not by the Master.

Art is not what it is.

For an English language article, click here.

Performance art - Marina Abramovic (2)

2010-07-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

I refer to an article in Newsweek, April 2010 entitled The Naked Eye. It discusses a number of occurrences at Marina Abramovic's (MA) The Artist is Present at MoMA, NYC.

"Is a museum's white-walled context the only thing that separates artistic nudity from porn?"

We are talking about whether nudity being in a museum makes it functional, acceptable and free from dirty associations. Dirty, not sexual, because sexual is acceptable, isn't it? I cannot relate to the word porn very well. The word 'porn' is just like the word 'art', a subject for endless redefinition. If an artist or model is nude inside or outside a museum with no intention to arouse people or herself, it cannot be porn, regardless of who is bothered by the sight.

I have been fascinated by nudity in public and when it might be acceptable. One of my dreams is being exhibited nude in a museum. You can read the beginning of a story I have been writing for years (!) on Erica Chappuis' Une Vie d'Artiste, July 3 2010. I tend to think you can get away not only with nudity but even with porn in museums, certainly in those in Europe, as long as you produce a convincing reason. Masturbation, the female variety, features in my story as you will see in due course. By the way, my own intention for my dream would be to play with arousal, mine and that of the audience. The protagonist in my story's intention is not to do so, mind.

At MA's show "several visitors have been asked to leave for interfering with the work" and "a man with a 30-year membership was barred from the museum for life after he groped one of the performers" and "one [performer] told a reporter he'd felt erections against the back of his hand more times than he could count" and "one of the male models was asked to leave his post after he became visibly aroused." This is not supposed to happen. Performers and the audience alike are supposed to be in control of their reactions and physical manifestations. MA is a mistress of control. Her disciples and her audience evidently not. The original Imponderabilia (1977) had MA and Ulay naked in the doorway, until they were sent away by the authorities after a number of hours. I am sure MA, Ulay and his member behaved, but how about the audience then? There is no record I am aware of.

Are we, the high-brow art lovers, supposed to not experience lustfull feelings because we are above all that? Or only not show our feelings? As long as we admire the cunts, cocks, breasts, asses in a composed manner, all is well, although we are really supposed to consider the light the work sheds on the human condition. We should be pretty good at it now, compared to when MA first began in the 70s. These days the (near-)nude form is pressed upon on from all directions and at all times. Is our behaviour worse in spite of this? Or because? Or is the cause the erodes moral we entertain? Will we ever learn? Should we ever learn?

Perhaps the audience should only have been admitted when nude themselves and treated to a good talking to by MA herself if they offended the rules.

Performance art - Marina Abramovic

2010-07-29T03:57:00.000-07:00

I missed the great exhibition at NYC's MoMA 'The artist is present', a career spanning overview of Marina Abramovic's work.

I did purchase the catalogue and have been quite mesmerised. (It includes a CD, with the artist commenting on her work in a fairly even, composed tone. Towards the end, she shows her emotion, though, when talking about the artistical betrayal by Ulay at the end of their collaboration, ending after their love relationship ended, and when talking about partisan parents.)

The point I wanted to make for now is this. We know that women's breasts may increase with age, but we rarely see it. Abramovic has often performed nude and we see that hers clearly have. She has generally stayed in very good shape and would hardly have put on weight. It is good to see a woman ageing gracefully.

Performance Art (1)

2010-07-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

I am never sure what to think of performance art (PA). Yet I have been fascinated ever since I first read about Marina Abramovic's (MA) work.

I am never sure if PA is not simply self-indulgent.

Or stupid. Or - worse - irresponsible, to the point of relying on the public to save you as MA did in Rhythm 0 and Lips of Thomas. Impressive still...

Night Crossing is above doubt for me, as are Imponderabilia, Role Exchance, Freeing the Memory.

Freeing the Body is really my cup of tea. I have innocently done the same thing a few times over. See my The Voyeur, for example.

Modern art is so hard to judge. Elements such as the intention and the integrity of the artist come into play. Hardly of relevance in Vermeer's day, but paramount when judging MA or Tracy Emin or Damian Hirst.

Fascinating, isn't it?

Louise Bourgeois' Cells

2010-07-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

I am indebted to Louise Bourgeois. My Opening would not be the same if not for her. I think especially of her Cells series.

She died at a tender old age recently.

Opening

2010-07-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

It has been a terrible time and rivers of water have gone under the bridge.

Read my story excerpt 'Opening' on Une Vie d'Artiste by Erica Chappuis.

The rest is ambituous work still brewing. Featuring Elizabeth I, Mata Hari and Billy Holiday, among others.

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

2006-12-09T07:54:00.000-08:00

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)

2006-12-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

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)

2006-12-09T07:49:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

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)

2006-11-28T00:55:00.000-08:00

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)

2006-11-23T12:27:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-21T01:34:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-19T08:35:00.000-08:00

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.

Did the Story of O film have to be so bad? (part 2 of 4)

2006-11-16T14:26:00.000-08:00

Now why would Just Jaeckin’s (JJ) film be that way, aesthetically pleasing, but superficial, shallow --- bad? Did it have to be, AD 1975? JJ was a photographer and interested in beautiful images. He does succeed there, but I have tried to argue that he misses the point of the book. The book is grittier, earthier, not soft, no matter how compliant O's character is. It is certainly about a mental journey that O follows from René’s vanilla lover, to his submissive to that of Sir Stephen. Assuming JJ had wanted to do the book full justice, and that he would have been capable of doing so, could he have succeeded? I believe he could have, if he had been a different man and cunning, perhaps by being restrained on the showing and let O speak more, literally or figuratively. I grant that a mainstream film would not easily have succeeded. The JJ version as it is was banned in the UK and US, I think, no matter how innocent. There is the nudity to deal with, the whipping etc., and the humiliation, of a woman as a woman... Political correctness? Would that have been in the way? Feminists disagree on the quality or the morality of the book. But Pasolini made Salo around the same time, a quite extreme statement. True, he dealt with scores of young women and men, instead of concentrating on a single woman. Salo caused uproar, but it was shown and still is. Not that I would have recommended Pasolini to do the O film. He is not straight enough. The example of Salo merely demonstrates to me that my ideal O film could have been made at the time. My favourite would have been a Stanley Kubrick, who could have done it at the time, had he wanted.

The bad films about Story of O (l'Histoire d'O) (part 1 of 4)

2006-11-16T01:52:00.000-08:00

Why are the two films made after the Story of O (l'Histoire d'O) that I know so bad? Perhaps I should modify my ‘bad’ and say ‘mediocre, meaningless, superficial’ etc instead. I am referring to the famous Just Jaeckin (JJ) version of 1975 and a more recent American version (Story of O – Untold Pleasures.) I will ignore the latter for now.
The JJ version was groundbreaking, perhaps, it has its visually appealing moments, Corinne Cléry is a pretty girl, but the essence of the film has little to do with the intentions and mood of the book, which, as some of you know, I adore (http://www.xs4all.nl/~outjonk/vannao.htm). The film is soft-porn, 'Emmanuelle goes slavegirl.' Cléry walks through the adventure sufficiently naively, girlishly perhaps, perhaps like O accepting all that is done to her, not resisting. Yet the mood is all too easy to my mind. I see no evidence of how hard O finds it - the embarrassment, the pain, the dedication to Sir S; the book expresses this so well. Nor indeed does the film express the deep joy she feels once she has submitted to Sir S. The frivolous love interest between Pierre and O in the film is simply ridiculous.
An example of an easy opportunity that the film chose to miss is the final scene in the book, where O is set down at the party of the Commander, in the corner of the courtyard. The actions and talk between the young couple that visit O, without involving her of course, typify all that O is in a nutshell: an object that can be ignored (or used), but that still provides fear and attraction and is a model for how that couple's relationship could be. The Story of O is about the relationship between woman and man, simply reduced to an extreme form, perhaps not viable or desirable in reality, but all the more recognisable at the end of the day. Not so in the film. The film is not about the depths, but about the surface. I call that superficial, shallow. It does not satisfy me. I call it bad, because the book deserves better.

Alison - Happy Chastity

2006-11-14T13:25:00.000-08:00

My friend Alison is a professional woman, with a super job, great house and man, late husbands, daughters, and a curious habit: chastity. Her blog described her exploits: http://alison73.wordpress.com/. Her man is the so-called keyholder, but one can hardly say she is forced to be chaste. Keywords: chastity belt and corset. And dinner parties, nude swimming, feisty friends, who may or may not choose to wear knickers at the parties or a suit when swimming.

A glimpse of what goes on amongst the happy few. Yes, her pages are about sex, but unlike the protagonists in my erotic stories, which deal with obsession, pain, humiliation and domination, Alison and friends are a happy lot.

I envy her.

Glamorama

2006-11-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

I have just finished reading Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis (BEE). all nearly 500 pgs. I have to call it a glorious failure; emphasis on glorious. One thing: it is highly sexy at times. It starts off as a satire on the world of clubs, fashion and film, inhabited by model-/actors, popstars etc., their lives fueled by drugs, drink, designer wear and, of course, sex. Our hero, Victor, a model/ actor/ club organiser in NYC, cannot string together one coherent sentence or express any sign of love in his communication with his girlfriend, supermodel Chloe, to save their relationship, meanwhile following his prick to a few other women. Unreality starts setting in when V is confronted with sightings of him at various places he has not been at. When the ground in NYC has become to hot to stand on, he accepts a commission to go to Europe and bring back a woman, who happens to be an old flame of his, though he is almost too thick to remember. Via London, where he meets her, he finds himself in Paris with her and a group of male and female models, who turn out to be model/ terrorists and bring about a number of high profile bombings, whilst making (sexually oriented) snuff movies on the side. Now the story is a thriller. All this brought (as if) in the context of a film that is being made, by a pair of film crews. What is real/ what is film? The end game is where Victor is entirely lost between double-crossing alies/ foes, or is it triple-crossing? His old flame whispers, whilst mortally wounded 'I am not (her supposed name.)' He finds himself stuck, as even his family in the US claim they have sighted him at breakfast that morning. All that: glorious. The 'failure' resides in the question: what is the point BEE is trying to make? It may have been lost in the amply detailed richness of the story.

The realities of submission

2006-11-07T10:37:00.000-08:00

I have little actual experience with BDSM. I do have experience, commanding as a Domme via the virtual domain. Very significant to both parties in the equation, and very real in its way, but not the sort of actual experience I mean. I also have experience living the life through writing my stories (www.vannavechian.com, BDSM section.) There I usually take the side of the sub. Writing is a great way to act a part, but it is still not the actual experience I mean. I dream of being a submissive very often, more so than being a Domme (which I am, in the virtual domain.)

But how would it be to actually be a 24/7 slave, at all times available for sex first and last, to one or many, known and unknown. To be nude at all times - yes, I dream that - and to be observed, always. To be trained using pain and humiliation - part of my dreams. To have one's hair shorn, to have no will but the Master's? To be modified, pierced, tattood, branded, augmented and enhanced?

I dream of those realities.

welcome to Vanna Vechian's erotic scrapbook

2006-11-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

My name is Vanna Vechian, dear reader.

I write erotic fiction, centred on woman and her body (mine!)

This is to be the companion site to my Vanna Vechian's Erotic Fiction site (www.vannavechian.com). Loose ends here, as opposed to rounded works there.

Stay tuned.

Love, Vanna