Friday, March 7, 2008


I can't remember exactly where i first heard of Pauline Reage's Story of O. I have a flimsy memory of it popping into a conversation between me and some French friends in Paris (how appropriate). I'm certain that they brought it into the conversation to illustrate some political point - which oddly the majority of any conversation i've had with les Francaises has involved politics - thus treating the book as a foot note. This meant my mind shelved the idea of a mainstream novel written on the subject of the willful debasement of a beautiful girl, only to call upon it later. At the time, i was still engaging in a massive amount of self-restriction and denial about my sadistic urges. However, hearing that a momentous work of fiction, one that had cultural and political significance, addressed the realm of power exchange gave my internal slants legitimization.

To prove this point even further, in order to purchase the book, i didn't need to visit an adult book store, but my local community one. And i didn't find the glossy all-white paperback stuffed in a section behind a curtain that discouraged drop-ins from minors, but instead under the gloriously celebrated genre of "Literature". I remember when reading it while riding the train, at first i tried to conceal the cover and spine to avoid what might be chastising comments. But as i advanced through the narrative, the intoxication of O's ordeal gave me courage, and by the time i finished i was practically flaunting the book to complete strangers. I wanted someone to see that i was reading this seminal work on the off-chance the right person might strike up a conversation. I treated the book like an unspoken password that would gain me entrance into this world where females willingly dip into roles of servitude and flagellation.

I credit Madame Reage's tale with injecting a vivacious serum into my mind whose chief properties inspired me to live my life as i dared. It helped corrode the shackles i'd placed on my desires. The prose of her novel moved silkily through my mind whenever i pursued someone, acting like a template and a guide. I would introduce the book to many people, especially those with whom i shared an emotional and physical intimacy. I guess it was my own proselytizing, my attempt to convert the straight-minded into the warped and twisted creature i was.

I found many images detailed in the book inspiring. The description of O lifting her skirt before she sat on the cold, steel garden chair, pressing her unclothed cunt against the frigid grill. The flames of the fireplace at Roissy, where within inches O received numerous floggings. All of these stirred me, communicated with me. But none more so than the following:

"Hasn't Yvonne said anything to you about this?" Anne-Marie asked O.

O shook her head. What was there for Yvonne to tell her?

"And i know Sir Stephen didn't either. No matter. Anyway, here are the rings he wants you to wear."

..."On the blank side will be your name, your title, and Sir Stephen's family and given names," Anne-Marie said "with, below it, a design composed of a crossed whip and riding crop. Yvonne is wearing a disk just like it on her necklace, but yours will be worn on your loins."

This seared itself like cave drawings on the cavern walls of my mind. I had never before thought of such possibilities. It was so raw, so primal. The young man that i was knew immediately this is how he wanted to make the ultimate statement with any girl he pledged to own.

I've dabbled with SM in numerous ways, dangling the meaty carcass of lust before the beast, letting it swipe and slice at this lure. Each episode, whether it lasted for minutes, or stretched out over months gave my appetites temporary respite. I knew that fundamentally what i wanted from any exchange was ownership.

Last night, i took my girl to our piercer, and had her outer labia pierced with a single curved barbell. I've been working with a jeweler in the UK, designing the jewelry that will eventually hang from her cunt lip. Because my girl reads this, i won't go into the detail of the design i've conjured, but perhaps, in two months, after she's fully healed, and she's been presented with her tag, i might be inclined to post some pictures.


Anonymous said...

You might enjoy knowing who the real author was, and that it was really a long love letter in a certain French literary style.

littlegirl said...

first of all, congratulations to both of you! second of all, reading this reminded me of my own fond discovery of the same book. i shared your thrill that it was accepted as literature, that i didn't have to hide it (it rests rather prominently on my bookcase to this day) and that it opened my mind to the possibilities of my own desires.

an excellent post!

Zeno said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Zeno said...

I don't even remember exactly how I came across the novel. Years ago, yes, during the years I was a student.

I never hid it, bought it in a regular store.

Reminds me, that I shoud read it again, one of these days!


elle said...

this book is one of my all time favorites. i have read it so much that the pages are worn and the binding has fallen apart.

i'll anxiously await to her more about her tag.

hugs, elle

Deity said...

in my original discovery of the book, i did a thorough amount of research into the author. i've even recently seen this documentary.

thank you for your kind words.

isn't it amazing how one little pamphlet of words could lead us to such amazing internal epiphanies?

i couldn't remember exactly myself. perhaps my own way of clearing my conscious at the time that i had read such material. i wished i'd retained that knowledge now.

i'll keep that in mind once said tag has been installed.