A Bestiary of Unnatural Women (17 page)

I objected.

He objected to my objection by telling me
that I didn't deserve the comfort of a blouse and skirt,
either.

I said that the coat was too short. That I'd
get arrested for indecent exposure.

He said that if I said one more word, I'd be
shopping completely nude and it'd be a race to see if I could get
back to the car before the police arrived. So I shut up and had to
wear my boots and duffel coat on my shopping trip and nothing else:
no blouse, no skirt, no stockings, nothing.

When I took the dress off and put the coat
on, he told me that I looked okay. He didn't sound convincing. The
bottom comes down to mid thigh but the front closes with loop and
horn fasteners that only come down to my hips. When I walk
normally, it flashes open almost to my crotch. He saw that and
warned me that I'd have to walk slowly and carefully, just taking
small steps. Worse, the neck does not button up high enough to hide
the leather collar. Once I had the coat on, he didn't let me take
it off again. He told me to put my boots on, gave me a handful of
money and the car keys and told me not to come back until I had the
Ex-lax and enema bag.

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 that 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.