My tears froze to my eyelashes before I got the car started.
I didn't want to go the drugstore close to home where I usually shop, so I drove all the way downtown. That gave me a long time to think about having to walk around in public naked but for my coat. It was only twenty degrees outside and blowing hard. As I walked across the parking lot, pellets of snow were peppering my bare legs and the smooth, polyester lining of the coat was frigid against my nipples. Gusts of wind that were blowing up the open bottom of the coat practically froze my crotch, but I didn't dare hurry for fear that the lower front part of the coat would blow open and flash my private parts to the world.
I'd never seen an enema bag and nozzle for sale before, but there it was, sitting right out on a bottom shelf below the laxatives. I guess I never looked down there before. I had to hold the bottom of my coat closed when I squatted down to get it or I would have been showing my naked ass to anyone who happened to be looking.
The old man at the cash looked at me with a most peculiar expression. I'd turned the leather collar around so that the padlock was hidden at the back under the coat collar and shoved the wrist cuffs as far up the sleeves as possible but it must have been obvious that I was naked underneath the coat because there wasn't a speck of clothing showing anywhere. When you see a woman wearing a coat, you always see the collar of her blouse, a bit of cuff, a hem of a skirt hanging down, nylons. He saw nothing on me anywhere but the wool coat. I didn't even have a scarf that could be hiding the scoop neck of a sweater or gloves to hide the naked skin above my wrist. When he gave me my change, he said, “Cold out there?”
“Sure is,” I said and left. My face was hot and flushed with embarrassment.
I spent the rest of the morning on the toilet. We didn't use the laxative because the package said that it could take twelve hours to work and Gene wanted to take me in the rear sooner than that. Instead, he made me fill myself twice with warm water enemas. He made me put as much into myself as I could hold by filling myself up, then waiting for a couple of minutes until the water worked around inside me to make more room, and then topping me up again. I don't know how much the bag holds, but I know that he filled the bag right up to the top and then watched to make sure that I took every drop inside me no matter how long it took. And then, each time, he made me hold it inside for another fifteen minutes before he let me go to the toilet. Do you have any idea how long fifteen minutes is when you're practically doubled over with cramps? I felt like I was going to throw up all the time. And it doesn't come out all at once. You have to go over and over again. I felt too nauseous to eat lunch but I made a couple of ham sandwiches for Gene between trips to the can. His appetite is just fine.
He kept me naked all morning after I got back from the drug store because it was convenient when I had to run to the bathroom all the time.
After all the preparations all morning, actually getting taken back there was anticlimactic. I lubed myself good with Vaseline, bent over the ottoman in the living room, spread my knees as wide apart as I could, and let him go to town on me. It hurt more this time than yesterday. I think I was extra tight from having kept myself clenched to hold the enemas in for so long and, also, he was more eager to get into me this time than last time so he didn't give me enough time to open up for him. I let myself scream loud when he went in and kept crying and whimpering throughout. That seemed to make him more excited.
Have I unleashed a monster in my husband?
I am disquieted to see that the possibility intrigues me more than frightens me.
I spent the early afternoon baking chocolate chip cookies. They're Gene's favorite.
Showing a distinct lack of gratitude, he spent the late afternoon beating me with the multi-tail flogger. He secured me facing the wall by clipping my wrist cuffs to the eye screws in the living room wall and clipping my ankles together. I had used my arm span to measure them when I put them into the studs so they kept me stretched exactly the right amount. I could barely move. He beat me methodically from my upper shoulders all the way down to my lower calves. I was facing the wall, but he blindfolded me with one of my silk scarves anyway, just to be sure that I couldn't see the strokes coming. I could hear them, though, and that was just as bad, maybe worse, than seeing them. He did not hit me too hard but every blow stung. He worked very slowly, pausing for a long, long time between each blow, giving me time to feel the pain of each lash build then begin to fade. He knew that I was terrified waiting in anticipation of the next whistle of the lashes and the next explosion of pain. He deliberately made me wait longer to than I could tolerate because he knew that I would have to tolerate it anyway. I had no choice. The blows overlapped, the top edge of each blow falling on the bottom edge of the previous and creating a special line of particularly intense sensation.
Every time he hit me, my body jerked against the wall and the locks on my collar and wrists clanked.
The pain was worse when he was working his way over my butt because I was still badly bruised there from his introductory whipping with the riding crop yesterday.
I knew that Gene was studying the marks that he was making because he told me how my skin would turn white under the impact, then slowly flush bright red as the blood flooded back to the surface. He is becoming a connoisseur of my suffering.
I don't know how I feel about that.
I began trembling uncontrollably from the tension and the pain and the fear before he got half way down my back. I tried but I couldn't stop quivering. I began crying after his second blow and kept crying until he was finished. The silk scarf was so wet from my tears that he could barely unknot it.
He doesn't seem bothered by these things.
When I agreed to serve a week in Roissy, I anticipated more sex and less whipping. Maybe Gene can't get it up as often as he'd like so he's punishing me for his deficiency. Or maybe he's whipping me just to fill the time. I'll have to go back and re-read the book when I get a chance. I want to see how often O was whipped and how often she was used sexually.
As soon as he unclipped my wrists from the wall, he clipped them together behind my back, pushed me to my knees and made me service him with my mouth and lips and tongue. I don't know if he had washed himself since using my other end a few hours earlier, but tried not to think about it. Anyway, after the enemas, I was as clean there as anywhere else.
He made me swallow. O always swallows.
It's the only think that I've eaten since he fed me breakfast.
He cooked spaghetti with meat sauce for supper. He left my wrists clipped together behind my back and my ankles clipped together until supper was over. I can shuffle slowly when my ankles are clipped together but I am terrified of falling when my hands are cuffed behind my back. I wouldn't be able to break my fall and would likely hit the floor face first. I don't know if he thought about how badly I might be injured when I have to move like this.
He didn't feed me. Because my hands were cuffed behind my back, I had to push my face into the spaghetti and suck it up. He gave me a glass of wine but I couldn't drink it until he put a straw in it for me. He laughed at the mess I made of my face. I tried to be as neat as I could but the sauce was puddled on top of the spaghetti, not mixed in so I had to push through it to eat. I had sauce dribbling down my chin and dripping down between my breasts with every bite. It practically ran all the way to my crotch My hair kept dragging through the food no matter how I tried to toss it out of the way. It was the most humiliating meal I have ever eaten.
To rub it in, he did not let me clean myself until after I'd cleaned the kitchen. He said that everything had to be spotless and he kept my ankles clipped together to make sure that I had to work slowly as I carried the dishes to the sink and put the food away. Worse, he used a piece of chain to attach my wrists to my crotch – it was wrapped around my waist and then fed between my legs and back through the front, held in place with padlocks – to make sure that I couldn't move my hands higher than my nipples. He was just making sure th
at I couldn't wipe my face. And every time I tried to reach too high, the chain was pulled tight between my legs to remind me what part of me Gene considers most important. It took over an hour to get the kitchen cleaned to his satisfaction. The spaghetti sauce that was smeared all over me was drying and itchy by the time I finished.
A shower never felt so good before.
He let me spend the rest of the evening wearing the Roissy dress that left my breasts bare, sitting at his feet in the family room, watching television with him. He let me keep the skirt down instead of tied up.
He loves Sixty Minutes.
It bores me stiff.
After I finish writing this diary entry, I expect that he'll chain me back in bed for the night. I'm so tired that I think I'll sleep like a log no matter how he chains me up. And now that I know that I can unhook the chain from the wall, it won't be nearly as bad as last night.
Gene's Diary
Wednesday, 7 February 1973
I think I went a little bit overboard yesterday. When I went into O’s room this morning to unchain her, she was lying on her stomach because her whole back was a mass of bruises from her neck to her ankles. Except for the back of her knees. I was careful not to hit her there because there's a lot of nerves close to the skin that might have been damaged. Also, she's not much bruised on her lower back because I didn't want to damage her kidneys. The rest is pretty bad, though. I didn't realize how hard I was hitting her. I know that I wasn’t hitting her nearly as hard as I could have. Now I’m a little afraid to do it again. At least, I won't whip her until she's had a chance to recover. I still haven’t tried the leather paddle that she left in the living room, so I'll have to use it some time but I can wait until the end of the week. At least the paddle is obvious. It's for her butt only so I don't have to worry about doing more damage to her back or legs when I use it. She also wrote about using my belt in her letter but I'm going to ignore that part. She suffers enough with the whips.
Of course, I can't tell her that. She's got to think that she's always a misstep from being punished if she fails to obey me promptly and fully. And I will punish her for disobedience even if that means that I have to bruise her again where she's already been bruised. But I won't hurt her again for no reason, only for some disobedience that’s so obvious that I have no choice.
Like her backtalk about not going to the drugstore yesterday. I was going to let her wear a skirt and blouse but she started fussing at me. O can’t be allowed to fuss. I had to take the blouse and skirt away from her just to show her that there're consequences for any failure to obey immediately and without question. I didn’t like sending her into a store wearing only her winter coat and boots, but she made me do it to her. And I know that she really hated it, but that’s just tough. O reaps what she sows. And then some.
We didn't do much yet today. I had her make love to me once already but that's enough for the morning.
I have to think of something for her to do for me this afternoon.
It’s a lot of work, trying to think of enough adventures to keep O busy constantly.
Emily's Diary
Wednesday, 7 February 1973
What a boring day. Gene didn't make me do hardly anything interesting. I wore the Roissy dress all day while I cooked breakfast and lunch. Mostly we just sat around. In the mid morning, he made me make love to him but even that wasn't very interesting. He lay on the bed naked and made me climb on top of him, still wearing the dress, and straddle him and do him. He didn't even tie me up. I had to work hard for a long time but it didn't excite me. I didn't get close to coming.
After lunch, he went down to his workshop and came back up with his copy of “The Story of O” and made me read the whole thing to him from cover to cover, even the introduction that was really dull and tedious. The woman who wrote the book understood a lot more about submission and sexual slavery than the guy who wrote the introduction.
I watched Gene while I was reading. Some parts made his eyes glitter. Some parts made my stomach clench. Those were the same parts.
After supper, we watched a little television and now he's letting me write in my diary until bedtime. Even last night was easy. Despite having my hands clipped to my collar so that I couldn't touch any part of myself but my face, I slept right through.
If this is all we're going to do for the rest of the week, I want to go back to work and stop wasting my vacation time.
He better think of something more interesting to do to me tomorrow or I'm going to be very disappointed in him.
Gene's Diary
Tuesday, 2 February 1973
Today, I get educated. I’m going to learn some things about O that I never knew before.
Emily's Diary
Tuesday, 2 February 1973
I can’t believe what Gene made me do today. It was appalling. Even when I was being beaten black and blue the entire length of my body, I wasn’t ready to give up. But now I'm seriously thinking that I won't be able to last until the end of the week.
The morning went well enough. Puttering around in my Roissy dress, cleaning the house, watching a little television, then preparing lunch. Gene was quiet. Thoughtful. I should have guessed that he was planning something, but I never would have guessed what he had in mind. He has an evil, perverted streak in him that I never saw before. Or even suspected.
It all started after lunch. He made me sit quietly while he cleaned up the kitchen. I knew that something was coming, but had no idea what it could be. My wrists and ankles were free. I remembered to keep my knees slightly separated, my lips slightly parted, and my eyes lowered, as O was instructed to do.
After he was finished, he took me into the living room and told me to remove all my clothes. When I was naked, he made me to sit in the recliner. He tied a black scarf around my eyes to blindfold me and then had me lie back all the way and spread my legs apart, not far, just far enough to expose my sex.
I heard him sit on the sofa across the room from me; the springs creaked a little as he made himself comfortable. I felt nervous because I knew that something was going to happen now.
He asked me a question, “When was the first time you kissed a man romantically?”
I told him. It was no big deal. I've told him a few things about my first boy friend, and about some other boys that I'd dated before I met him. But this time he wanted details. How did I feel? What was I thinking?
He kept asking questions and I kept answering them. O has no privacy.
He spent all afternoon doing that: looting my life, raping my memories, demanding to know everything I've ever done with any other man. He went all the way back to the first sex games that I played with my cousin when I was eight or nine years old, daring each other to pull down our pants. He asked about my fantasies. What did I think when I was making love to him? Had I ever thought about a movie star when I was in bed with him? How did I get myself in the mood? Had I ever imagined being raped? By more than one man? What did I think when I was watching the movie, “Billy Jack”? “Straw Dogs?” “Clockwork Orange?” What actress did I think was the sexiest? Could I imagine myself kissing her? When was the first time I played with myself? When was the most recent time? What did I fantasize about when I did that? Did I ever play with my own breasts? Did I ever put my fingers inside myself?
His questions went on and on. I told him the truth. And the more truth he heard, the more he wanted to hear.
He tore every secret from me that he could and left me as naked as any person could ever be. No husband should know that much about his wife. I would never want to know that much about him.
What did he think when I told him that I once came when I was playing with myself and imagined being raped by a motorcycle gang? Does he think that means that I want to be raped by hairy, brutal strangers? Is he going to take me down to the Hell's Angels clubhouse tomorrow afternoon and leave me naked on their front porch? Does he understand the difference between fantasy and reality? Does he care?
A
nd why does the thought of being sent naked into a motorcycle gang headquarters make me wet when I'm sitting here writing in my diary tonight?
Gene's Diary
Thursday, 8 February 1973
I can't believe that my wife told me as much as she did yesterday. But I do believe that every word was the truth. And I believe that she was telling me truths about the real Emily, not about the imaginary O. It sounded true, not made up. O said the words but Emily supplied the memories.
In a single afternoon, I was given a greater gift than any husband has ever received or deserved.
I do not know how to return that gift, but I will have to think of something that shows her the same degree of love and trust that she has shown to me.
It will be difficult because I have learned that my wife is a more exciting person than I ever knew or imagined.
Emily's Diary
Thursday, 8 February 1973
It was another terrible day. I can't believe what Gene made me do. I can't believe that I was able to make myself obey him. If you'd asked me this morning if I could do what I did today, I would have said that it was impossible. That, even if I had wanted to, I couldn't have done it. That I'd have died first. But I did. I didn't know what was coming and I was only told one thing at a time, only had to take one little step at a time, so I kept doing it until I’d done it all it. I’m I really that obedient now? Can I actually toss my ego aside this quickly? What does this say about my self-image as a strong, independent person?
A Bestiary of Unnatural Women Page 13
